The Hunger Games- Peeta's POV Original Dialogue Canon
by OzKat
Summary: The Hunger Games from Peeta's point of view. Canon. It uses all of the original dialogue and I've attempted to mimic the prose used in the original books. Complete. I love feedback so please tell me what you think! Note: The story and characters belong to Suzanne Collins.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

I wake up early. Judging by the position of the moon through the open window, it's about three in the morning. It's a little over an hour before I'm due to get up, but I know I won't get back to sleep. Today is the day of the reaping. I can just make out the shape of my brothers in the beds next to me. Granthem is sprawled out, his long limbs hanging over the edge of the mattress. There's a faint smell of metal and wood dust from his clothes that lay crumpled on the floor. Tysin is snoring on a second bed beside him, his face looking as gruff and irritable as it does when he's awake. Being the youngest, and by far the smallest, I'm on the floor. I'm not exactly little. In fact, I'd probably be considered pretty average in height and even a bit stocky. But my oversized brothers have always dwarfed me.

I roll out of bed and feel my way across the room to the chair where I laid my clothes out the night before. I slip on the tattered trousers and discoloured shirt, and pull my shoes on quietly. The floorboards squeak as I make my way back to the other side of the room to where my dingy looking apron is hanging on the back of the door. I keep it clean but the years of wear have left stains that will never wash out. I tie it around my waist and head out the door. As I creep down the stairs, I carefully avoid treading on the spots that creek underneath my weight, silently leaping over two steps at a time and hopping from side to side. It's a path I know so well I could do it in my sleep. And sometimes I pretty much do. I need to be sure not to wake my parents. They're not due to get up for a few more hours and the extra sleep means the day may go by more peacefully. My parents don't argue much these days, but on a day like today, tensions are likely to be high.

When I was a boy, things were different. My mother would constantly scream at my father for not doing things exactly right in the bakery. It's dad's bakery really, but my mother took it upon herself to run things in a very particular way. Dad used to argue back, to defend himself, but over the years he's learnt that it's easier on everyone if he stays quiet. I sort of resent him a little for that. It's like he's being dishonest with himself when he doesn't stand up for what he knows to be true. But I don't blame him either. I might even do the same if I were in his position.

And mum, well her motivation is keeping the family going. If things are not running efficiently in the bakery, we could easily go under. One sack of infested flour, an oven of burnt bread, or a load of spoilt milk could be enough to shut us down. And then we'd be forced to sell the bakery and move out to the Seam, the area surrounding the town where the poorest people from our district live. And given District 12 is the poorest of all the districts, we'd be in a pretty bad way. Most people in the Seam live in tiny one or two room shacks that are half falling down. Many wouldn't have a working toilet. Out there, even the electricity is scarce, usually only coming on for a few hours or so in the evening. Candles and lanterns are used for light, and hot water can only be gained using coal fuelled fires. So even though mum isn't always kind or fair, I can at least understand what she's trying to do.

I flick the switch on the wall and shield my eyes as the bakery lights up. It's a large open room with just a few basic bits of equipment. There are two long wooden tables in the centre of the room, four towers of wire bread racks, three gas ovens, and an old cast iron furnace in the corner. One of the gas ovens no longer works, and there's another that only dad and me are able to fire up.

I go to the pantry room and pull out the trays of dough that were left to ferment from the night before. My job is to punch out the air, cut and shape the bread into portions, and get it baking in the ovens before my father gets up to join me.

Today is a little different though. I'll be focusing less on the regular breads and more on making some of the decadent goods we have to offer. Normally only the officials and the peacekeepers, our policing agents, are able to afford such items. But tonight, the districts are supposed to celebrate with a large feast. Not all families do, but some like to rejoice that it's over for another year and that their children have been spared. A few of the wealthier families will come into the bakery today with money for our tarts, flavoured rolls, and maybe even a cake. It's a good day for business, but I have to be careful to make just the right amount of everything so nothing goes to waste.

After I get everything in the oven, I still have an hour or so before dad gets up, so I move on to assembling the quiches and tarts. I don't expect to see Granthem until about mid-morning. Now that he's a bit older, he no longer works in the bakery. Last year he got a job working alongside the town's builder. Not that there's anything much to build. Most of the houses in District 12 are slowly falling apart, but people can't afford to hire someone to patch them up. My brother spends most of his time doing construction and repair work in the mines. It's a good job and his income is subsidised by the Capitol, the far off city that rules our country, Panem. The primary role of our district is to produce coal for the Capitol and, to a much lesser extent, the other 11 districts. So it is in the Capitol's interests to keep the mines in good repair. Today though, the mines will be shut. All citizens must attend the reaping. Granthem will take the rare opportunity to sleep in.

Tysin on the other hand usually gets up to help out in the hour before school. Our parents often let him get away with skipping this though, preferring him to focus his efforts on his trade. Tysin's obsession with trains began when I was too young to remember. When he was just six, he would sneak off down to the station on export days and hide there to watch the trains come in. On his eighth birthday, my mother managed to get the money together to a buy an enormous book on train mechanics. He read it over and over until he could practically recite the thing. As he grew older, the school began to help him to develop skills in mechanical engineering. He's getting really good, and the mayor of District 12 has even employed him on occasion to do basic repairs on the railroads. His hope is that one day he'll be good enough to work across the other districts for the Capitol. It would be a steady and reliable source of income, a complete rarity out here.

The first batch of bread is nearly ready by the time dad comes downstairs. He gives me a tight squeeze, something that only happens about once a year, before he crosses over to inspect the loaves. "Good job, Peeta," he says, and gets straight to work on the next batch while I continue the assembly. We work well together. We've been doing it for so long that there's no real need to communicate. He has his jobs and I have mine. The father and son baking team. We even look alike with our pale skin, blue eyes, and ash blond hair. I think I was born to follow in his footsteps.

Dad is just about to unlock the shop doors when there's a loud knock. It's Gale. He's holding out a large squirrel in the hope of exchanging it for a loaf of bread. You're going to have to do better than that, I think to myself. But dad surprises me and fetches a fresh loaf right out of the oven. I guess he's feeling a little sentimental today and is prepared to be a little more generous than usual. Fortunately for both of them, mum isn't around. Dad wishes him luck, shakes his hand, and closes the door again.

I don't particularly like Gale. It's not so much about him personally though. From what I know about him, he's a nice enough guy. Being from the Seam and about two years older than me, I've never had much to do with him except on the rare occasion when he comes in with some fresh meat to trade. It's more that I envy him. After he leaves the bakery, he will be headed out to the woods beyond our borders for his daily hunt. It's illegal to go outside District 12 without authorisation, and poaching carries the severest of penalties. But his family depends on him to bring home meat for food and for use in trading. Of course, I wouldn't want to exchange my lifestyle for his. But I would happily risk it all to be with the person who he'll be meeting in the woods.

Katniss Everdeen. Katniss, with her straight black hair, olive skin, and deep grey eyes. I've been in love with her since the first day I saw her. We were just five years old then. I had no idea what love was, but when she got up to sing for us on the first day of school, she completely took my breath away and I've not been able to get her out of my mind since.

Over the years, I tried to build up the courage to talk to her. I would often watch her around the yard and in the hallway at school, hoping to get her attention, but she never seemed to notice. I was far too intimidated to just walk up to her and strike up a conversation. She generally keeps to herself and does not have any close friends. It's not as if she couldn't make friends though. Most of the girls at school really like her. They talk about how confident she is and how, unlike the other girls, she never tries to be anything other than herself. I even see some of the younger girls deliberately copying her unmistakable hairstyle – a single braid that she wears straight down her back.

In fact, Katniss is very well-regarded by most people who live in District 12. The townspeople appreciate her reliable supply of fresh meat that would otherwise be unattainable. And those that live in the Seam, where she's from, deeply respect her remarkable hunting skills and her ability to make a fair but uncompromising trade in the gritty black market known as the hob.

In any case, kids from the Seam don't usually mix with the town kids. And why would she want to talk to me anyway? I'm just a baker's son. What would I have to offer her that the other guys didn't? There's a stack of boys who like her at school. They trip over each other trying to impress her, but she doesn't seem particularly interested. She goes to school because it's the law. But she has an obvious lack of regard for academic classes and is even less interested in the social aspect of school. Her main concern is providing for the basic needs of her family. After a while, I think I'd built it up in my head so much that talking to her just became an impossibility.

The most I'd ever had to do with her was when we were 11. It was just a few months after Katniss's father been killed in a mining accident. Her mother went into some kind of depression and was not even seen for nearly a year. Katniss had no choice be to take on the responsibility to care for her mother and younger sister, Prim. But at such a young age, she had few options to gain an income or source food. Next to mining accidents, starvation is probably the most common way for people to die in District 12. And even though she never told anyone, I could see that Katniss and her family were slowly heading down this road. I wanted to sneak her some bread, but with my mother watching our family's every move, there was no way I could. I needed to find a way help but I didn't know how.

Then, late one afternoon, the opportunity presented itself right in my backyard. It was the middle of winter and the rain was pouring down in icy buckets. Dad was partway through teaching me how to prepare the sourdough loaves when my mother began screaming at the back door. She was telling someone to go away and threatening to call the peacekeepers. Curious, I crept up behind her and took a peek over her shoulder.

Katniss was standing hunched over in the rain, the lid of our rubbish bin gripped tightly in her trembling hand. She gazed back at my mother like a helpless and desperate animal. I still remember the acute sense of shame I felt as mother ranted about having brats from the Seam pawing through her trash. Katniss said nothing. She simply put the lid back over the can and backed away.

After my mother returned to work, I snuck a look out our back window and found Katniss staggering along behind our pig pen. When she reached our old apple tree, she slumped to the ground behind it without any attempt to shelter herself from the rain. She had given up. With her body already stick thin and wasting away, the cold could easily take her.

I had to do something. I desperately wanted to go to her, to give her some dry clothes and to invite her into the house. But my mother would sooner throw me out for good than allow that to happen. So I came up with the only thing I could think of. I knew that it would get me into a lot of trouble, but I could at least make it look like an accident to avoid the worst of the punishment.

My father had left me in charge of baking the breads in the cast iron stove. When I went to check on them to see if they were done, I gave two of them a little nudge to make them fall into the hot coals below. They caught fire within seconds. Dad shrieked as he rushed over to retrieve them. But with the fire bellowing out the opening, he couldn't get to the loves before the flames had severely charred them.

The moment my mother saw the damage done to the bread, she picked up the rolling pin beside her and charged at me. I held my arms up and tried to cover my head but she yanked my hands away and belted me several times across the head. With a giant blow to the cheek, I fell to the ground. My dad stood by, saying nothing.

"You stupid, useless boy!" She yelled as she continued to lay into me on the floor. "How can we run this bakery if you can't even make a simple loaf without burning it!" She pulled me to my feet and dragged me to the back of the bakery. "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!" She shoved the loaves into my hands and pushed me out the door.

I limped out into the pouring rain and began to tear off small chunks from the worst of the burned areas, tossing them into the pig pen while my mother stood by. Then I heard the ring of the bakery shop bell and my mother's footsteps as she disappeared inside.

What I was about to do was extremely risky. If accidently burning the bread resulted in a beating like that, I couldn't imagine what would happen if she found out that I did it intentionally to help one of those 'Seam brats.' So, after making sure she was gone, I continued to fix my attention on the pig while I threw each of loaves in the direction of the apple tree where I had seen Katniss through the window. Then, without checking if she had seen the loaves or if she was even still there, I quickly turned and darted back inside. When I snuck another look outside sometime later, I was relieved to find both Katniss and the loaves of bread gone.

I wanted to mention something to her the next day at school, but I didn't know what to say. If I went up to her with my swollen cheek and black eye, it would be like saying, 'hey, check out the beating I took for you last night.' So when she caught me staring at her across the school yard, I simply turned my head away. She never said anything and neither did I. I'm not even sure she knew that I had knowingly thrown the loaves in her direction, let alone burned them on purpose.

It was in the following year that she began to hunt in the woods. My dad told me that her father had left her a hand crafted a bow and arrows to use for catching game. Like all weapons, you cannot buy them anywhere in District 12. If the officials found you with one, you could be publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. But, like Gale, Katniss has a family to take care of. I wonder if that's why she partnered up with him. They both act as the head of their household and are depended on for food and an income.

Apart from her sister, Gale is the only person who Katniss really has any time for. At first, I thought they were cousins, with their matching dark features and grey eyes. Although unlike her, Gale is very tall. I've heard the girls at school grumble that they are not related though. I'm not sure if they are actually a couple or if they just like each other's company. What I do know that is that Katniss is not interested in anyone else. There is a whole tribe of boys who are after her at school and I doubt she would even have any idea.

"Breakfast!" My mother calls from upstairs. I've been up for a long while now and my stomach has been growling away at me. I help dad get the last of the rolls into the oven and follow him up. Beams of sunlight stream in through the windows, lighting up our otherwise dreary kitchen. The space we use for cooking, eating, and general living is barley large enough for our family of five to use at once. But it's pretty rare that we are all together anyway, except at dinner time. My mother makes a point of squashing us all in around the dinner table each night.

This morning, the old wooden table is set with a loaf of bread, three rolls, and a pot of last night's soup. No one else is up, so the three of us sit at the table and begin to eat. I break a roll in half. It's so stale that it crumbles in my hand. This is typical. We only eat the leftovers from the bakery that haven't sold after three days. And because my mother is careful not to have us make more than we need, this means that is not uncommon to simply have a clear broth for dinner or to even miss meals or altogether.

The only thing on anyone's mind today is too unpleasant to talk about. So we eat in silence, pretending it's just another day. Tysin doesn't share the same feeling when he comes in to join us. "Last one for me today," he says, pulling back a chair and plonking himself down beside mum. He tears apart a bit of the bread with his teeth and dips straight into the pot in the middle of the table.

Mum scoffs and shoves a bowl in his direction. "Just because this is your final day in the reaping doesn't mean you get to eat like a pig."

Tysin gives a huff as he pours some of the soup into the bowl. By this time next year, he will be 19 and will no longer be eligible to have his name drawn out at the reaping. He's already looking confident though, like he feels invincible already. He's doesn't share in the tension of the rest of us at the table, nor does he even seem to notice it.

"What are you looking at squirt?" Tysin snorts when he catches me watching him.

"Nothing," I reply. You might think that today of all days would be cause for us all to be a little kinder to each other. But my brothers haven't been especially friendly to me for years. It's not that anything bad happened between us, we've just drifted apart over time. When we were kids, the three of us used to spend hours playing together in the afternoons. Acting out war games or kicking a ball around. Sometimes it would get a little rough, but we shared a bond that always brought us back together.

These days, about the only thing Tysin and I do together is train for wrestling competitions, and that's pretty much just an opportunity for him to practice on me. With the size difference, I have little chance of actually winning. Granthem used to wrestle with us too, but he gave it up when he left school. Adults don't have much time for meaningless competitions.

After breakfast, I head back down to get started on my favourite part of working in the bakery. Cake decorating. There's little opportunity in District 12 for creativity. People who are constantly starved half to death and working 18 hour days just to keep their families alive don't have much interest in art. Not even the wealthy seem to have time for it. But with cake decorating, I have an excuse to be creative. They're too expensive and unnecessary for most people to buy. But on occasion, for birthdays, New Year's Day, and reaping day, a few people will splash out and get one. Knowing what to paint in the frosting on reaping day is tricky business. If the peacekeepers are buying them, they would delight in an image of some gruesome scene with the Capitol seal painted across the bottom. But this would turn any potential district customers away, and frankly, I couldn't think of anything worse.

This year, I decide to focus on the season. It's early summer and the woods are teeming with life. After getting approval from my mother, I embellish three cakes with images of blue skies, flowers, and green leaves. I then carefully paint in representations of the wild deer, eagles, mockingjays, and squirrels that live in the woods around District 12. It's a little after midday when I finally complete them. I take just a second to admire my work before placing them out in the display windows.

I don't have long now before we need to leave, so I run upstairs to have my turn in the wooden tub. Granthem's already been here, but it looks like I beat Tysin. At least the water won't be completely filthy. I scrub myself down as best I can and hurry out of the lukewarm water. Lying on the bed when I return to my room is a sky-blue button-up shirt, a pair of long black trousers, and some black boots. My mother must have put them out for me. They are the nicest clothes I own. Despite previously belonging to both my brothers, they are still in pretty good shape. We don't often have a reason to dress up. But everyone is expected to look nice for the reaping. Something that I resent but can't avoid. I part my hair and comb it to one side, trying to flatten out the wavy locks.

Dad is waiting for me when I get downstairs. "Here, I got this for you," he says, slipping me a cinnamon roll. It's still warm, fresh from today's bake.

"Are you sure?" I ask. He nods, keeping his eyes fixed on the bottom of the stairs. I scoff it down as quickly as I can, knowing that it would not have been worth it for either of us if we were caught. But I make sure to finish the last bite slowly enough to take in the sweet, delicate flavours, to feel the softness of the bread on my tongue, letting it dissolve in my mouth. I thank dad for his generosity and wait for the others to join us.

At half past one, we make the short journey to the town square. Attendance at the reaping is mandatory for all citizens. Even the sick and the dying are expected to be there. The Capitol wants everyone to witnesses the fear on the kids' faces, the weeping of the families whose children are chosen. Our suffering must be emphasised and evident to all. But we are also expected to celebrate it in the same way that the Capitol people do. As if it's nothing more than a grand sporting festivity.

Like every year, the square is adorned with bright banners to promote the reaping and the Capitol. The pristine colourful decorations look absurd against a backdrop cracked buildings covered in a thick layer of coal dust. The high tech cameras look similarly ridiculous stationed on rooftops and across the temporary stage, ready to capture the moment from every angle.

We line up in hoards to sign in. The Capitol uses the reaping to conduct a population census. Even though we are one of the smaller districts, it's a rushed process to get through roughly 8,000 residents. As we file in, the children aged 12 through 18 are herded into roped off areas sorted by age, the oldest at the front. Family members pool around the perimeter, anxiously gripping one another's hands. Then the rest of the population squeeze in behind them. The last ones to arrive assemble in the surrounding streets where they will watch the event on large outdoor screens provided by the Capitol.

I find some of my friends in amongst the other 16 year-olds. We wish each other luck but otherwise remain silent. Katniss arrives shortly after me, selecting a spot amongst the crowd with no attempt to find a familiar face. She looks beautiful in a pale blue dress, her hair up in two braids. The reaping is the only time I see her wearing something other than her father's old leather jacket. This year, the dress she is wearing is so feminine that her usual ferocity is almost completely eliminated.

To avoid staring at her, I turn my attention to the temporary stage that stands in front of the Justice Building. Next to the podium are three chairs. In one of them is Mayor Undersee, a tall, balding man who looks just about as uncomfortable to be here as the rest of us. His daughter, Madge is in the crowd with the other children, just a few metres away. Perched on the second chair is District 12's escort, Effie Trinket. Being from the Capitol, she looks completely out of place in our drab, grimy district. She wears a tight green suit and matching heels that are outrageously high. Her pale pink wig is fluffed up around her head, and she has an enormous fake smile plastered across her face. The third chair is empty.

On the other side of the podium sits two large glass balls, one for the boys and one for the girls. In the boys bowl, five slips of paper out of about one thousand will have my name written on them. The system is set up so that odds of your name being called out increases with age. When you turn twelve, your name is entered just once, at thirteen, it will be in twice, and so on until you reach 18.

But the odds are worse for some. If your family is starving and has no other way to get food, you can opt to put your name in more times in exchange for tesserae. Each tessera is worth just one year's supply of grain and oil for one person. So someone with a whole family to feed can put their name in multiple times for each person. Someone like Katniss. I've seen her at the collection point getting her monthly supply of goods every year since she was 12. And the entries are cumulative, so by now, she will probably have her name in the reaping bowl 20 times.

The town clock strikes two and the Mayor steps up to the podium to read the same story that we are given every year. He tells of Panem's history, the country that rose up out of the ashes of a place that was once called North America. He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained. The result was Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens. Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the districts against the Capitol. Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide two tributes, one girl and one boy, to participate. The 24 tributes will be taken to a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins. The victor receives wealth and fame, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. While the other districts battle starvation, the winning district receives gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar.

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch — this is the Capitol's way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," the mayor finishes. He then goes on to read the names of District 12's previous victors, which is just two. One of them died some time ago. The other is Haymitch Abernathy, who staggers onto the stage, babbling incoherently. The plump middle-aged man is clearly very drunk. The crowd gives a token applause, but this seems to confuse him and he responds by trying to give Effie Trinket a hug.

The mayor is looks extremely uncomfortable. The event is being televised and Haymitch is making District 12 look like a joke to the rest of Panem. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing the next guest.

Effie Trinket prances over to the podium and greets us with her ridiculous fake smile. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!" Like almost everyone from the Capitol, she speaks in a high pitched, over-the-top accent. They use odd vowels and each sentence ends in a sharp rise in pitch as if everything they say is a question. Effie prattles on about what an honour it is to be here, although everyone knows she'd rather be the escort for any district other than ours. Who wouldn't be? We have by far the lowest number of victors and our only living one is a complete embarrassment.

Then it's time for the drawing. As always, Effie Trinket announces proudly, "Ladies first!" and trots over to the glass ball with the girls' names. She reaches in, digging her hand deep into the ball, and draws out a slip of paper. The crowd falls completely silent, everyone holding their breath. I glance over at Katniss, whose eyes are firmly planted on the stage. Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, and I'm desperately hoping that it's not Katniss, that it's not Katniss, that it's not Katniss. Effie smoothes the slip of paper and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it's not Katniss. It's her sister.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Primrose Everdeen. A name that nobody expected to hear. She must be 12 years old now, but would barely pass for ten. With her short stature, light blonde hair, and fine features, she looks about as innocent and fragile as a baby bird. Katniss is wildly protective of her, watching over Prim as if she were her own daughter. I'm certain Katniss never would have allowed her sister to take tesserae, meaning that the slip of paper held between Effie Trinket's fingers was the only one of its kind in that ball.

The crowd mumble and groan like they always do when someone so young is selected. Twelve-year-olds don't stand a chance in the Games. I think the youngest person to come out of them alive was a 14-year-old boy, and he had special advantages. For someone like Prim, being chosen at the reaping is nothing other than a death sentence.

My eyes dart around to locate Katniss in the crowd. She's standing motionless, the blood completely drained from her face, her mouth hanging open slightly. She begins to sway and fall back, but a boy catches her from behind and holds her upright until she regains consciousness a few moments later. She then simply remains frozen and her eyes stare blankly as if they no longer register sight.

I follow the gaze of the crowd and find Prim, who has reacted to the news more quickly than her sister. The slight figure is already walking past the sixteens and obediently making her way toward the stage in forced small steps. Her face is deathly pale and she holds her hands in clenched white fists by her side.

Katniss rouses from her daze at the sight of her. "Prim!" she chokes out as she begins to stumble after her. The other kids step aside to allow a path for Katniss to reach her sister. "Prim!" She starts to run, but it will do no good. In a moment, the Peacekeepers will grab Katniss and drag her away. It doesn't matter how much of a fuss you make, how tightly you hold onto a person, once someone has been selected at the reaping, there's nothing you can do to protect them from being thrown into the arena.

Unless… Unless… My stomach twists.

"I volunteer!" Katniss gasps when she reaches her sister at the bottom of the stairs. She pushes Prim protectively behind her back and stands firmly, the same way a mother bear might put herself between a predator and her young. "I volunteer as tribute," she repeats loudly.

It's so unusual that the thought hadn't occurred to me. We haven't had a volunteer in District 12 since I can remember, although my mother once told me that it has happened a few times before. In other districts, volunteering is more common, but for an entirely different reason. The honour and glory of winning is so immense that some overly confident kids are eager to risk their lives. It's virtually unheard of to have someone volunteer to save somebody else's.

There is some confusion on stage. Effie Trinket frantically flicks through her notes. "Lovely!" she breathes, continuing to look down at the paper in front of her. "But I believe there is a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if someone does come forward then we, um…" She trails off, clearly uncertain of the protocol herself.

"What does it matter?" says the mayor. He is looking down at Katniss with a pained expression, clearly aggrieved by the turn of events. Katniss and the mayor's daughter sometimes spend time together, so it's possible he knows Katniss personally. "What does it matter?" he repeats. "Let her come forward." Effie Trinket presses her lips together, but doesn't challenge him.

Prim begins to scream hysterically. She wraps her little arms around Katniss and clasps her hands together. "No Katniss! No! You can't go!"

"Prim, let go," Katniss says harshly, keeping her eyes fixed on the stage above while trying to peel Prim's hands from her waist. It gives the appearance that Katniss doesn't care that her little sister is in anguish. But that can't be true. She just sacrificed her life for Prim. Is Katniss shrewd enough to already by working on her game strategy by trying to appear brave in front of the other tributes? They will all get a first look at their opponents through a replay of the reapings when they are televised tonight. Showing weakness is not a good start.

Gale, who was already standing toward the front with the other 18-year-old's, rushes forward.

"Let go!" Katniss repeats. Gale grabs hold of Prim and pulls her loose, saying something quietly to Katniss as he does. He carries Prim toward her mother at the back while she thrashes about in his arms. Without pausing to look back, Katniss makes her way up the stairs.

"Well, bravo!" Beams Effie Trinket. "That's the spirit of the Games!" She is pleased to finally have a volunteer. A bit of interest in the otherwise dull District 12. Katniss moves to stand beside her. "What's your name?"

Katniss takes a breath and leans into the microphone, looking out at the crowd. "Katniss Everdeen," she says. Her voice is devoid of emotion.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we?" Effie Trinket says with a sweet smile plastered across her face. Everything about this woman is so fake that it's impossible to tell if her absurd remark reflects a genuine belief that Katniss volunteered out of selfish ambitions. Surely she's not that thick. "Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" gushes Effie Trinket.

I don't lift my hands together. And, as a testament to how well regarded Katniss is across District 12, not a single person does. The silence whips across the crowded town square like a winter's breeze. Our refusal to applaud represents a shared acknowledgement that we do not agree with this. It is not okay.

Then something astonishing happens. Perhaps out of respect for what Katniss has done for her sister or perhaps because Katniss's effect on people is even more profound than I had realised. Maybe it's both. But whatever the reason, one by one, people begin to touch the middle three fingers of their left hand to their lips and hold them out in Katniss's direction. It's an old, rarely used gesture of District 12. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means goodbye to someone you love. The crowd continues like this until almost every person has saluted her. It's about the boldest form of rebellion our people can muster.

Katniss stares back down at them, unmoving.

The touching moment is suddenly interrupted when Haymitch staggers toward Katniss in what I assume is an attempt to congratulate her. "Look at this one!" he hollers, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "I like her!" The vile creature leans onto Katniss and puts his face an inch from hers. "Lots of…" He tries to think of the right word. "Spunk!" he says victoriously. "More than you!" He lets go of Katniss and walks toward the front of the stage. "More than you!" he yells, now pointing aggressively as he advances forward.

It's unclear who he's talking to. It might be the audience, but by the way he stares directly into the camera, it looks as though he is actually addressing the Capitol. Such open defiance could prove fatal, even for a former victor with the defence of intoxication. But just as he opens his mouth to continue his rant, he tumbles sideways off the stage, knocking himself out. I hear several people in the crowd laugh. I don't agree that it was funny, but the ill-timed outburst was additional absurdity that probably left people unsure of how else to respond.

By the time Haymitch is whisked away on a stretcher, the crowd has descended into mumbled chatter. I hear several remarks about Katniss's bravery, as well as sympathy for her family, who will now have to find a way of surviving on their own. Without Katniss to provide food and a means to trade, Prim and her mother will be in danger of starving to death. The district could protect Prim by taking her into a community home, but from what I've heard about that place, I think I'd rather starve.

Effie Trinket tries to recapture the audience's attention. "What an exciting day!" she breathes as she attempts to straighten her oversized pink wig. "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute." Unlike every single other person among the thousands here, she appears to be sincerely excited about these events.

Are all people in the Capitol so disturbed as to see the Games as no more than simple entertainment? Do they find nothing wrong with it? Surely they have children of their own. Can they not see that our children are just like theirs? Just kids that have done nothing deserving of death. Do they not look at Prim on their screens and see her childlike innocence? How can they celebrate Katniss's courage and bravery without caring what will happen to her next? Katniss is going to die and these people will stand by and cheer. More than that, they will welcome it, encourage it, and even bet on it.

The feelings of rage and disgust well up in my body, replacing the horror of seeing Katniss up on that stage. My stomach wrenches and my head spins. I'm so caught up in trying to process the overwhelming thoughts and feelings that I don't even notice Effie Trinket go over to select a slip of paper from the boys' ball until she's back at the microphone and reading the name, "Peeta Mellark."

Peeta Mellark.

The two words hang coldly in the air, my brain refusing to accept it. Accept that Peeta Mellark is my own name. The noise that filled my head only moments before is suddenly swept away. My mind becomes numb and I no longer feel anything at all.

A few years back, during a wrestling match between Granthem and I, Grantham was attempting to flip me onto my back but he overreached, causing me to land heavily on my head. When I came back into consciousness a few minutes later, it was as if my body had woken up but my mind was still out. I couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't register what was going on around me. I was just, blank.

That's how I feel now. My mind is devoid of thought and I am unable to comprehend what's happening, yet my body seems to know what it must do. As if programmed, I make my way toward the stage, up the stairs, and find my place next to the podium. Somewhere in the distance, I hear Effie Trinket asking for volunteers. But no one will step forward for me. What Katniss did was exceptional. It would be unfair me to expect the same from my own family.

The proceedings continue on in the same way they do every year, with the Mayor reading the long Treaty of Treason. It's this adherence to formality, as if my impending death had not just been announced, that jolts my mind back into gear.

Why me? I had pretty good odds. There were thousands of slips in that ball. Some boys from the Seam would have had their names in 40 times or more. It's not fair. If only Effie Trinket hadn't dug so deep, or had moved her hand a little to one side; then it would be someone else standing up here and not me. How can this be happening? What did I do to deserve this?

My mind is now racing and my body begins to shake. It shouldn't be me. I have absolutely no chance out there. I can't fight, I can't hunt, and I don't even know how to source food or water in the wild. I'll probably be one of those kids who dies of starvation. No, I'll be one of those kids who get killed in the first ten minutes. What if it's Katniss who kills me?

Katniss. How ironic. I waited 11 years for my chance to talk to her and when I finally get it, it's only to be thrown into an arena to kill one another. Well, I won't do it. She can go ahead and kill me but they can't make me lay a finger on her. I'll die before they force me to do that.

The mayor finishes the Treaty of Treason and motions for Katniss and I to shake hands. If my heart wasn't already racing, it would be now. Katniss turns to me, revealing an expressionless face that lacks even a hint of fear. Either she's an expert at concealing her emotions, or she's just insanely brave.

I lock my eyes on hers as we each extend out a hand. Her skin feels cool against mine. She grasps my hand absently, but firmly enough for me to notice a faint tremor in her fingers. I try to give her a reassuring squeeze. Stupid. If anything, she'll see it as a threatening gesture. From this point on, Katniss will assume that I am plotting to kill her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The anthem of Panem plays and we are marched off to the Justice Building by the peacekeepers. We are not restrained, but I have the distinct sense that we are being taken into custody. No one would try to run at this point though. Even if you believed it would be better to die here than to be slaughtered for entertainment in the arena. Because this is the Capitol we are talking about, and execution is certainly not the worst thing they can do to a person.

I'm escorted inside and left in a locked room alone. It's not a cell. In fact, it's the nicest room I've ever seen. The carpet is a deep purple colour and is made of a thick plush that gives way beneath my weight. I step back and forth to watch the piles slowly spring back to life in the outline of my shoes. There is a set of three red velvet chairs with oversized round armrests. I'm supposed to sit down, but I don't. Instead, I pace around the room, waiting to see who my first visitor will be. We are allotted just one hour to say our final goodbyes.

My parents enter the room. Dad rushes over to me, tears in his eyes, and pulls me toward him. He wraps his arms around me tightly and buries his face into my shoulder. My father's sobs are loud and uncontained. His body shudders with each out breath. The pain is utterly raw, replacing the steadfast strength that ordinarily defines my father. It unbalances me, thrusting me into my own sorrow. I begin to cry with him as waves of emotion surge through my body.

When dad finally releases me, my mother is waiting to embrace me. She doesn't look at my face when she approaches and her hold on me feels stiff and awkward. I can't remember the last time my mother showed me physical affection. It must have been when I was just a boy. There was a time when I was about nine years old. I got really sick with fever and couldn't keep any food down. When I stopped drinking water, my mother got really worried and sent dad out to get some expensive medicine. Mum stayed by my side, putting wet washcloths on my head and stroking my hand. She didn't leave me for days.

I long for that same feeling of warmth from her now. But she is ice cold. After a few long moments, she lets go and takes a few steps back to lean against an arm of one of the chairs. She stares at the floor. None of us sit down. It seems too formal at a time like this.

Apart from the intermittent snuffles from my father and I, the room is silent. No one knows what to say. My parents can't reassure me that everything will be okay. It won't be. They can't give me advice on how I might stay alive, either. We are all painfully aware that it is foolish to entertain thoughts that I could survive. So we need to say goodbye. Only, how do you say goodbye to someone who you will never see again? The things we need to communicate to one another are much too complex for ordinary words.

I decide to dodge the issue entirely. "What's going to happen in the bakery? I mean, who's going to take over from me?"

Dad wipes his nose with the back of his hand and lets out a long, slow sigh. "I don't know. I guess everyone will have to pitch in," he says. "Grantham can do a bit more, even if he has to turn down some of his regular work." He looks at me, the faint outline of a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. "And Tysin can get up before school and do the early shift."

"He is not going to be happy about that," I say, joining my father's amusement at thought of Tysin getting up before dawn. He's tried to weasel his way out of early starts since I can remember.

It's at this point that my mother begins to cry. Silent tears fall, landing on the soft carpet below. She covers her cheeks with both hands, her fingers gripping the sides of her nose. Dad takes a step toward her and puts an arm around her shoulder.

"I don't know how we're going to survive without you," my mother splutters out, still looking at the floor.

"It's all right dear, we'll get by," my father says in a soft, reassuring voice.

"Yes," I chime in. "It won't hurt Grantham and Tysin to start pulling their weight a bit more. If everyone puts in an extra hour or two, you won't even notice I'm gone."

She is really sobbing now. "But Grantham earns such a good living through his building. And Tysin actually has a chance to work full-time for the Capitol. It's the only chance our family has of finally getting ahead and… and…" She trails off.

I cannot believe what I'm hearing. In saying her goodbyes to me for the last time, my mother is absorbed thinking about the wellbeing of my brothers and our family's prosperity. As if the worst thing about my death is that it will inconvenience the rest of the family. Fresh tears of grief well up in my eyes.

My father looks at me, and he must see the hurt on my face because he grabs hold of my mother's shoulders and raises his voice. Something I have heard him do only a few times in my life. "Listen to yourself! Is this really how you want to say goodbye to Peeta!" His abrupt outburst has an immediate sobering effect on my mother. Tears continue to roll down her blotchy red cheeks but the sobbing stops.

"It's just… It's just…" I stare at her, waiting for her to continue. "I didn't want them to take _you_ , Peeta. You're my boy." She finally looks up and meets my eyes for the first time since entering the room. "You're my boy and I love you!" The words burst out of her as if they were a poison that had to be swiftly expelled. Quietly she adds, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you that enough."

I step forward to close the small gap between us and wrap my arms around her. "It's okay, mum. I know that you love me. You didn't have to say it," I tell her.

And then I feel dad enclose us both in his arms. "I love you so much, son," he whispers into my ear, through stifled tears.

"I love you too," I say. "I love you both." We hold on to one another for what feels like a long time. And then the peacekeeper is at the door telling us our time is up.

My father gives my hand a tight squeeze and kisses my forehead as he releases his hold on my mother and I. They both walk toward the exit without protest.

Just as they're about to disappear behind the door, my mother turns to me and says, "Well, at least District Twelve might actually have a winner this year." I open my mouth to object but she beats me to it. "She's a survivor, that one." And then the door closes behind them and I'm alone again. My mother's words linger, bouncing around in my head. _She's_ a survivor. She? But I don't have time to process it before my brothers are ushered into the room.

Grantham speaks first. "Why did you have to go and get your name called out little man?"

"It's not like I did it on purpose," I protest, wiping my eyes roughly with my fingertips.

"Sure, you just wanted to, 'steal all the glory,'" he says, in a high-pitched impersonation of Effie Trinket's Capitol accent. "Seriously though. How did you do it?" Grantham says.

"Do what?" I ask.

"Well, when Katniss's stepped up to the podium, I thought you might just be crazy enough to volunteer so you could finally have your chance to talk to her. But then somehow you got reaped alongside the love of your life. Coincidence? I think not."

We all start to laugh.

"Well squirt, you'd better make your move. It's now or never." Tysin says.

"Somehow I don't think she'll be in the mood for romance. You know, with the whole, trying to kill each other and all." I say.

"True, true," Tysin admits. "But that's in the arena. You've got plenty of time together before then. And I'll bet she'll want a bit of comfort from the nearest available person. You've just got make sure that person is you and then you're golden."

But the conversation is making me uncomfortable. I don't want anything to happen between Katniss and I just because she is scared and I happen to be there. It feels wrong, manipulative even. I change the subject.

"So, you think I've got a shot at winning?" My brothers narrow their eyes at me, trying to work out if I'm being sincere.

"Sure, sure," Grantham says. "I mean, if cake decorating is part of the competition, then you'll knock 'em dead." We all laugh again. It's the kind of banter that we used to have when we were kids. Making fun of each other and joking around together. The dynamic between us changed when Grantham left school and adopted the responsibilities of an adult. His character took an abrupt change, and there was no longer time for silly childhood games or immature chatter. Tysin and I never got along very well when it was just the two of us, so the fun just fizzled out.

"But Peeta," Grantham's face becomes serious. "Don't give up just yet. All sorts of people have won the Games in the past.

"Come on, Grantham, you and I both know what my odds will be like," I say sullenly.

"Look, you haven't seen the competition yet, and there are plenty of different ways to play the Games. All I'm saying is, don't count yourself out," Grantham says.

I want to believe him. He wants to believe himself, too. He is not willing to accept that this will be the last time he sees his baby brother.

"Yeah, I guess," I say, unconvincingly.

"Seriously bro," Grantham continues. "Remember a few years back when the boy from District Five won? He didn't have anything you don't have." He's right. No one expected him to win. The boy that year was probably a little smaller than me. I'm not even sure if he killed anyone. He was resourceful and clever though. Many of the tributes that year starved to death or were killed by the extreme temperatures. It was a desert – scorching hot during the day, freezing cold at night. The boy survived by digging himself a small shelter and catching wild game using clever snares. No one even saw him after about the second day.

But the Gamemakers, the people in charge of constructing and managing the Games, won't allow a repeat of this sort of thing. It wasn't exactly riveting television viewing for the Capitol. I don't want to discourage Grantham though.

"I suppose if he could win, there is a chance I could too," I say.

"Yeah," Tysin adds. "And don't forget, your darn good wrestler."

"I can't wrestle people to death, Tysin," I argue. "The others will know how to use spears and swords and knives and stuff."

"Not always. And there was that one year where there were no weapons in the arena," Tysin says.

I particularly hated that year. Every single death was slow and painful. Kids were beaten to death with rocks, strangled with vines, or drowned in the river. It was brutal. My body shudders at the memory.

"Yeah, I guess," I say.

We spend the next little while sharing memories and chatting about nothing in particular. And then the peacekeeper returns again to tell us our time is up. It's funny how an hour can feel like three when you want to be doing something else, but that it can feel like just a few minutes when you are trying to savour every moment. It seems cruel.

My brothers each give me a hug in turn and wish me luck. They do not cry, and neither do I.

A car is waiting for me outside the Justice Building. It's a dingy grey thing, probably belonging to one of the leaders of District 12. Our family used to own a car when I was little but it broke down and we couldn't afford the repairs. We have an arrangement with a neighbour who has one though. We borrow it when we need to transport supplies for the bakery, and they receive free bread. I don't know who has the better deal.

Katniss is already sitting in the back of the car when I get in, curled up close to the door, her arms folded in front of her chest. She doesn't acknowledge me when I sit down and keeps her gaze fixed on the window for the entire short drive to the train station. I'm actually relieved. In making it so clear that she doesn't want to talk, there's no pressure on me to find something to say.

A swarm of reporters and their cameras are waiting for us on the platform. The screen on the nearby television reveals that our arrival is being aired live. I'm suddenly frightened when they zoom in on my face and it's obvious that I've been crying. If the other tributes aren't watching this now, they'll see it on the replay later. Showing weakness makes me look like an easy target. Someone to pick off early in the Games. I resolve to get better at concealing my emotions. A skill that Katniss seems to have mastered. Her stony faced expression on the television gives almost nothing away. She almost looks bored, somehow.

After a few moments of posing in the doorway for the flash of cameras, we are led inside. The doors zap close behind us and we immediately take off.

The sudden speed of the train gives me a start. I know a lot about trains from hearing Tysin prattle on about them, but this is the first time I've ever been on one. It travels an average of 256 miles per hour but is capable of almost 300. Much faster than the coal trains that usually travel in and out of our district. Our journey to the Capitol will take less than a day.

Our educators at school tell us that the Capitol was built in a place once called the Rockies. District 12 is a region that used to be Appalachia. Most of our lessons at school revolve around coal except for the weekly instruction on the history of Panem. It's generally propaganda designed to persuade the districts that we are indebted to the Capitol, that we should be thankful for the grace offered by the people there. The account of the rebellion is glossed over and it's obvious they're not telling the full story. But I guess it doesn't matter. It's not going to change the way things are now so we might as well accept it and move on with our lives.

The train is a luxuriously expensive place that is unlike anything I've seen before. The walls are laid out in polished metal panels with wooden trims that are decorated with intricate carvings. Plush red carpets line the floors, the colour so garish it hurts my eyes. Each cabin is lit with rows of dangling lights surrounded by delicate glass bowls that reflect the light so that it dazzles around the room.

I'm even given my own chamber with a lavish bedroom, an oversized bed, a dressing area, and a private bathroom. Fine clothes fill the drawers in my dresser and Effie Trinket tells me that I can wear anything I want and do anything I want. Everything is at my disposal. I've never been given this much freedom before. How ironic that such liberty is bestowed upon me when I am in fact a prisoner.

I decide to have a shower. We don't have one at home, but I've used one a few times before when staying with a friend. His parents own the grocery store and can afford such luxuries. But there the experience was limited by the meagre supply of hot water and by the way it dribbled slowly out of the faucet above.

The shower on the tribute train is entirely different. The water sprinkles out of a thousand tiny holes in a square plate above, making it feel as though I'm being drenched by steaming hot rain. The sensation of the water running over hair and down my back is both rejuvenating and soothing. I want to stay in there for hours, but after a while, my fingertips have shrivelled and I become uncomfortably thirsty.

I dry myself off with the towel and throw on the first set of clothes that I find in the draws. A white button-up shirt and a pair of thick brown trousers. They are a little tight but they'll do. It's nice to wear something that isn't tattered and old from years of being worn by someone before me.

With little else to do, and with my throat still dry from the hot shower, I make my way to the dining compartment. Haymitch is just getting up when I enter. "I'm taking a nap," he mumbles without looking at me. It doesn't look like he's talking to me, but there's no one else around, so I guess he must be. "Don't wake me for dinner." He staggers out of the room.

This room is even fancier than the rest of the train. The metal panels along the walls are polished so finely that I can clearly make out my reflection. A large chandelier hangs from the ceiling in the centre of the compartment, swaying gently with the faint movement of the train. Underneath it sits a large wooden dining table, adorned with a stark white cloth and an enormous arrangement of flowers that I recognise as roses. Set before each chair is an elaborate place setting and far too much cutlery for one person. The edge of the room is lined with a buffet stocked with towers of brightly coloured fruit, jugs of water, and ice that's shaped in impossibly smooth, transparent spheres.

I grab the water and a handful of grapes before plonking myself down at the table. Unlike our water at home, which has a distinct flavour of dirt, the water here tastes so pure that it's as if I'm drinking nothing at all. I gulp down two more glasses before I've had enough. The grapes are not so pleasant. Each one pops in a tiny explosion between my teeth, releasing an unbearably sweet mixture of juice and flesh. I leave the remainder of my handful sitting on the plate in front of me.

The sun is beginning to set outside, filling the train cabin with a magnificent orange light. The effect softens and warms the space, as if the whole room is being bathed in a restorative glow. Even in this place, on the train that will inevitably take me to my death, I can't help but sit back and absorb the beauty of the scene around me.

The doors slide open and Effie Trinket trots into the room, followed by Katniss. Katniss looks striking in a dark green silky shirt, a colour that I've never seen her wear before. It makes her grey eyes appear thoughtful and mysterious. Clipped on her chest is a small gold pin of a little bird. Katniss doesn't wear jewellery. Ever. So this pin must be something special to her. When I get a closer look, I can see that the bird is a mockingjay.

The mockingjays are somewhat of an accidental species. During the rebellion, the Capitol developed a number of genetically altered animals to employ as special weapons. They are collectively known as _muttations_ , or _mutts_ for short. One such animal was an incredible little bird called a jabberjay. It was developed with an ability to memorise and recite human language. The Capitol released them into regions where the rebels were hiding. The jabberjays were homing birds, so after they recorded conversations, they'd instinctively fly back to dedicated centres to be recorded. But when the rebels finally realised what was going on, they used the birds to their advantage by sending out misinformation. After being made to look foolish, the Capitol was forced to close the centres down and leave the birds to die off in the wild.

Except they didn't die off. The jabberjays, which were exclusively male, mated with female mockingbirds, resulting in the formation of an entirely new species. The birds, now known as Mockingjays can't mimic spoken language, but can still produce the full range of human vocal sounds; anything from the high-pitched squeals of a child to the deep tones of a man's voice. They can also replicate the whistles of any bird and their incredible memory enables them to reproduce entire human melodies.

Effie Trinket takes the seat across from me, and Katniss sits down beside me, causing a sudden spike in my heart rate.

"Where's Haymitch?" asks Effie Trinket brightly.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," I reply.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day," says Effie Trinket, patting her cheeks with the corner of a napkin. I think we are all a little relieved that Haymitch won't be joining us for dinner. The foul smell he emits is enough to put you off your food.

A team of expressionless waiters dressed in white deliver our meal in several courses. There's a thick carrot soup followed by a crispy green salad. The main course is lamb chops with a smooth gravy and mashed potatoes. Then there's a platter of assorted cheeses and fruits. Just when I think there couldn't possibly be any more, a large slice of rich chocolate cake is set down before us. Throughout the meal, Effie Trinket keeps reminding us to save room because there's more food to come. But I'm not used to this much food and it doesn't take long before I'm uncomfortably full. Besides, it's so delicious that it's hard to stop eating at will. Katniss and I don't say anything to each other throughout the meal, leaving Effie trinket to prattle on about whatever comes into her mind.

"At least you two have decent manners," says Effie in the middle of the main course. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion."

The tributes from District 12 last year were a pair of scrawny kids from the Seem who'd undoubtedly never had enough to eat in their entire lives. Proper use of cutlery was probably not a top priority for their families.

Effie Trinket's comment seems to push a button with Katniss because she makes a point of eating the rest of the meal using her hands. I'm not bold enough to do them same, but I admire Katniss for her resolute defiance, even in these small moments. After her last bite, Katniss grabs the edge of the tablecloth and wipes her mouth, causing Effie Trinket to purse her lips tightly together.

By the time the last plate of food is removed from the table, I feel ill and wonder if I'll throw up. Katniss's face has turned a light shade of green, too. The gentle rocking of the carriage certainly isn't helping much.

Effie Trinket leads us to another compartment to watch the replay of the reapings from the course of the day. It's a long and drawn out process, but the television producers try to make it interesting by adding commentary throughout.

Aside from Katniss, there are two volunteers. A tall, dark-haired boy from District 1 and a monstrous boy from District 2. These two will be tipped to win the Games. They're determined, strong, and likely well-trained. I imagine them now, watching the replays to examine the faces of the children they are preparing to kill.

A few of the other tributes impress on my mind. There's a vicious-looking girl from District 2 and a frighteningly large boy with dark skin from District 11. Dangerous, I think. And then there are those who stand out for a different reason. A boy with a crippled foot from District 10, and a slight girl from District 11, who looks about the same size as Prim. Their families will already be mourning them.

Finally, they show District 12. It's strange to see it all played out on the screen. Prim's terrified face as she walks to the stage, Katniss pushing Prim behind her back as she volunteers. The commentators are not sure what to say when the crowd blatantly refuses to applaud Katniss. It's somewhat of an embarrassment to the Capitol. They try to excuse it by remarking that our district has always been a bit backwards and that local customs can be charming. I wonder if the Capitol citizens buy that sort of rubbish.

When my name is called, the television shows a close-up of the shocked expression on my face. My terror is clearly visible for all to see as I make my way towards the stage. The boys from District 1 and 2 have surely now identified me as an easy target. Perhaps it's a good thing. If they don't think I'm a threat, maybe they won't bother to kill me right away.

Effie Trinket complains about the state of her wig during the ceremony. "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behaviour."

I laugh. It's such an odd thing to be concerned about in all this. As if presentation is the thing that matters in a Game of life and death. And that if Haymitch were just given a few lessons on etiquette, his behaviour would improve. But Haymitch's inclination toward the bottle is not going to be revised for simple reasons of appearance. "He was drunk," I say. "He's drunk every year."

"Every day," Katniss adds, smiling along with me.

"Yes," says Effie Trinket. "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and directs the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can be the difference between your life and your death!"

As if on cue, Haymitch staggers back into the compartment. "I miss supper?" he says, his slurred voice barely understandable. Then he vomits all over the red carpet and falls down into the mess.

"So laugh away!" says Effie Trinket, smugly. She skips off around the pool of vomit and out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Katniss and I watch with revulsion as our mentor attempts to rise out of his own sick. The stench of raw spirits, half-digested food, and bile is almost enough to make me throw up as well. Katniss looks at me and we share an unspoken understanding. Effie Trinket is right; Haymitch will soon be the person responsible for keeping us alive.

Katniss and I each take hold of an arm and haul him upright.

"I tripped?" Haymitch asks earnestly. "Smells bad." He wipes his hand across his face, smearing it with vomit.

"Let's get you back to your room," I say. "Clean you up a bit."

Haymitch leans on us for support as we guide him back to his chambers. He's so tragic. As far as I know, he has no family, or at least none that care about him, and any friends he once had have long since abandoned him. Aside from his annual mentoring obligations, I'm pretty sure Haymitch spends nearly all of his time alone. The man has been adorned with all the fame, glory, and fortune that come with winning the Games. He lives in a nice big house, he never has to worry about having enough food or warm clothes. He can buy anything, do anything he wants. He has about as much freedom as a Capitol citizen. But this is what he chooses to do. Obliterate himself so completely that he ceases to retain conscious awareness.

There are no other victors living in District 12, so I have no one to compare him to, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if alcoholism is common among those who've survived the Games. What horrifying images of death and brutality is he trying to suppress by blocking out all sensible thought? Or maybe it's not that exactly. Maybe it's the feeling of guilt that he wants so desperately to escape. Guilt from knowing that your survival meant the death of 23 innocent children. From being the one to kill many of those children. Is the agony of such guilt so consuming that he cannot bear to endure daily life?

Looking at the wretched man, it dawns on me that the Capitol has taken Haymitch's life away just as much as they took the lives of every other tribute in his arena. He no longer has a life in any real sense. And now the Capitol laugh and make jokes about him, as if it's somehow Haymitch's fault for being the way he is. The sickness of these people has no limit.

When we reach the compartment, Katniss and I drag him into the bathtub and put the shower on. He barely notices. Katniss recoils at the sight of the vomit pouring from his clothes and collecting in clumps at the drain below.

"It's okay," I say. "I'll take it from here."

"All right," she says, making no attempt to conceal her relief. "I can send for one of the Capitol people to help you."

The train is full of staff assigned to take care of us. They cook for us, wait on us, clean up after us, guard us. But the last thing I want is more help from the Capitol. Haymitch deserves better.

"No, I don't want them," I say.

Katniss doesn't question me. She simply nods and leaves the room, ending the first real conversation we've ever had.

I strip Haymitch of his clothes and take care to rinse the vomit from his skin and hair. I wonder what happens when he gets himself into this kind of state at home. The thought of him waking up in his own mess is both nauseating and deeply depressing.

My clothes are soaking wet by the time it's all done. Haymitch appears to be completely unconscious and it takes all my strength to wrench him out of the tub and get him over to the bed. I dry him off as best I can, rolling him from side to side. The room is heated, so I decide to leave him undressed and just cover him with the blankets. I don't have to worry if he'll remember any of this tomorrow. The man is comatose.

I get back to my room in a state of utter exhaustion. It's only about nine o'clock but I've been up since three. Was it really just this morning that I woke up next to my brothers in my own room? That I was baking bread and decorating cakes? It seems like a lifetime ago.

I discard my wet clothes in a pile on the floor and find a pair of shorts in the drawers. The sheets that make up my bed are lusciously soft and silky. I slide between them and pull the covers up around my face. I can't remember ever feeling this tired. The events of the day have made me so numb and so exhausted that I don't even have the energy to think, to be afraid, to worry about tomorrow, to wish I was somewhere else. I'm asleep before I'm even aware of shutting my eyes.

My body jolts me awake in time for my regular shift in the bakery. It's about four in the morning. I decide to stay in my warm, cosy bed. Everyone else will still be asleep anyway, and now will be the last opportunity to rest before this long, awful day begins.

I imagine my home. Dad will be getting up to put the bread in the oven by now. Maybe he'll already have Tysin with him, training him up so that he can take my place. The thought is no longer amusing; it just makes me sad to I think about how lonely it feels to be so away from them.

I wonder what they all did last night. Did they watch the replays of the day's events on the old TV that sits on our kitchen counter? Or did they try to pretend that it didn't happen? It's hard to imagine them sitting around, grieving together. They probably just tried to get on with things. Tysin doing his school work, my mother making dinner, and my father prepping for the next morning. I wonder if Granthem took up my responsibilities in the kitchen with my father. He usually doesn't do much in the evening so he'd be the natural fit.

Did they have any of the special reaping day cakes and other goods left over to finish off for dinner? Probably not. If there's one positive thing about my selection for the Games, it's that it will be great for business. With sympathies running high for my family, those who can afford to do so will stop by and spend a little more at the bakery. This will go on for the duration of the Games and maybe even a few months afterwards. But eventually things will go back to normal and my family will have to find a way to get by with one less employee.

Did they discuss that last night? It seems likely. Better to talk about the future than to dwell on what's happening in the present. There would have been arguments. My mother yelling, talking over the top of the others and telling them how it must be done. My father, rubbing his eyebrows and sighing deeply, but refusing to say much. And my brothers, bickering and trying to argue their way out of as much work as possible.

That's often how it is in the Mellark household. If we are doing anything other than business as usual, we are in a state of conflict. It's why our home is usually so quiet. We've become adept at keeping to ourselves and maintaining the status quo. But if something out of the ordinary happens, someone will find a reason to argue about it. Dad and I, who seem to be without the same taste for conflict, try to stay out of it. Disagreements can become really nasty, and if my mother, Tysin, or Granthem are involved, they often get physical. Not that my brothers hit my mother, but they will go after each other, and my mother has no problem beating them with a rolling pin or whatever is nearby. At other times, the disagreements are less vicious, but can go on for months, long past the time that anyone remembers what the argument was about.

If I'm honest, I think my mother is at the source of most conflicts, though not always directly. She has a bit of a different way of thinking when it comes to Panem and the Capitol's relationship with the districts. Whilst you couldn't exactly call her a supporter of the Capitol, she accepts and, to some extent, even agrees with the tripe fed to us by those in the central city. All that stuff about how the Capitol serves to maintain peace for everyone by keeping order and preventing a recurrence of the dark days. Or to put it plainly, she believes that the Hunger Games are necessary for ensuring our safety.

A small band of people in our district share the same beliefs. They tend to be the wealthier, self-righteous types who like to think of themselves as too good for the districts. I've never understood it. Are they so naïve as to accept the Capitol's blatant propaganda? For my mother at least, I think it has to do with a foolish aspiration to join the Capitol. There are some people, mostly those in the inner districts, who become so valuable to the Capitol that they are invited to become citizens. It usually occurs when you do a job that no one in the Capitol wants to do, but that requires considerable skill or expertise. This is why my mother is so intent on Tysin continuing his work on the trains. She sees it as her golden ticket to the shining centre of Panem.

Her opinions have always disgusted me. It's driven a deep wedge in our relationship that has grown as I've gotten older and gained more understanding. I don't care what reason she has for believing the Capitol's nonsense. There is no justification for the Hunger Games. For tearing children away from their families and placing them in an arena to fight one another to death. For making the killings into entertainment for others to enjoy. It's wrong. Just wrong.

Why someone from the districts would even want to live in the Capitol is beyond my comprehension. To leave your home, forsaking all your relationships and the life you have built, just so that you can exist as some devalued member of a depraved society that thrives on making others suffer while they live a life of relative comfort. Personally, I'd rather live in the Seam.

Well, I wonder what my mother thinks of the Games now. Will she continue to cling to the absurd notion that our society depends on them for peace? How will she reconcile her support for the Capitol with the knowledge that the same people killed her son for their own amusement? During the farewell yesterday, I remember her saying, 'I didn't want them to take _you_ , Peeta.' She meant to emphasise the 'you' part of it, as if it is fine if other people's kids are taken, but not her own. That's even worse. An inexcusable kind of selfishness.

And then I remember something else she said. Her final words to me _, 'She's a survivor that one.'_ How had I forgotten about this until now? I try to tell myself that she just slipped and used the wrong pronoun. But no, if she was referring to me, she would not have said _'he's a survivor'_ unless she wasn't talking to me. And she definitely was, so there's no mistaking her meaning. My mother was telling me that District 12 might have a winner, and that this person won't be me. Was this her strange way of making me feel better about my own death? To know that at least our district will be better off?

A surge of emotion rises up from deep in my gut. I can feel my jaw clench and my heart rate quicken. She's my mother! _My_ mother. She's supposed to believe in _me_. How could she just give up on me like that? Couldn't she have at least pretended to believe in me? That's what mothers are supposed to do, aren't they? To comfort and encourage their children, even when things are dire and there is no hope?

The bedsheets suddenly feel intensely irritating and I kick them off onto the floor. I stare up at the grey ceiling above and try to calm myself down. I've never revelled in the feeling of anger the way my brothers seem to. It makes me uncomfortable to feel so out of control.

As I force my breathing to slow, my head clears and a new emotion emerges. This one is more familiar. A painful kind of misery that makes me feel heavy and worn out, like someone has jabbed a needle into me that sucks out my motivation to go on. My mother is right. I can't escape that cold, horrible fact. She was just quick to accept reality, that's all. I should do the same. Just accept the fact that I have no chance and that I'm going to die.

Dying. Death. Being dead. I say it over and over in my mind, testing out how it feels, like prodding a bruise to see how much it hurts. I try to get used to the notion of passing away. It is totally surreal to think that at some time in the next few weeks, my heart will no longer be beating. I will no longer be thinking or feeling. There will be no Peeta Mellark. I will exist only as a memory. A recollection in the minds of people who once knew me. I'll be no more than a cold, stiff body in a cheap wooden box. The Capitol at least has the decency to provide a coffin and send the dead tributes back to their parents for burial.

But, perhaps this is the wrong attitude to have. Even though my mother has given up on me, my brothers haven't. I mean, I know they were mostly trying to make me feel better, but Granthem at least seemed to genuinely cling to a belief that I have a small chance of making it out alive, especially if I can avoid much contact with the other tributes. It all depends on the arena, and on how the Gamemakers choose to play it. It's possible, like in some previous years, that the most tenacious and vicious kill each other off, leaving some relatively benign kids to fight it out at the end. All I have to do is learn to hide well, source water, and obtain food. It's a long shot, but there's a chance.

A small flicker of hope rises inside me, like a twig beginning to catch alight from a single matchstick. But before the fire takes hold, the feeling is completely extinguished. Snuffed out by a sudden despair of a much, much more disturbing thought.

If I survive, it means that Katniss will die. Of course, it's not as if I wasn't aware of this fact from the moment my name was drawn, but suddenly the reality of it crashes in on me. If I even try to stay alive, I am essentially trying to kill Katniss. I would never be the one to pull the trigger, of course, but it doesn't matter. I may as well thrust a sword through her chest. Or her back. If I live, Katniss dies.

Over the years, there have been so many terrible days at home. When there was not enough food to go around, tensions ran high, causing screaming matches between my parents. My hungry brothers would take their frustrations out on me, calling me names and pushing me around. Sometimes they would hit me. I would be exhausted from my work in the bakery, from a day at school, and from just trying to keep the family together. So many times I wanted to run away. To escape. But there was nowhere to go and my family needed me. I felt totally trapped and completely alone.

I could not have endured those times if I didn't have Katniss. On the worst days, I would think of her and gain the strength to hold myself together. Just to imagine seeing her again enabled me to bear with the suffering. She gave me the courage to continue standing when I wanted to fall. She was my hope. But she was so, so much more than that. She was the source of the only real joy I had ever known. Her existence gave my life meaning. Granthem called it a stupid, schoolboy crush. But he was wrong. I love her. I have always loved her. I can't imagine not loving her.

Thinking over these things brings a new clarity to my mind. The idea of my own survival being the cause of Katniss's death is completely, utterly unbearable. But even just a life without her in it would be no life at all. I don't want to live in a world without Katniss. It wouldn't be living. Just existing.

It's obvious now. What I have to do. There is no other way. And as it all comes together, I actually feel a sense of relief. At least I know where I stand. In the arena, my job will be to keep Katniss alive.

The pain and uncertainty I had about whether I will live or die suddenly evaporates. I know exactly who I am and I don't need to pretend or try to become anything else. I am the boy who will do whatever it takes to save the girl who he loves. I can live with that. I can die with that.

When finally the dawn light is beginning to appear through the windows, I'm eager to begin the day.

There's no sign of Effie Trinket, Katniss, or Haymitch when I reach the dining car, but the staff are already buzzing around preparing our breakfast. They are terribly apologetic and even seem embarrassed that the food is not yet ready when I arrive. I try to tell them I don't mind and that I'm not even hungry, though it's not true. But they are eager to please and offer me a range of varying types of coffee in an effort to appease me for having to wait. I've never been interested in coffee. I don't understand why people like the bitter taste and the way it makes you feel jittery and wired. Maybe it's something you get used to.

The staff are insistent though, continuing to bombard me with other options until I finally relent and pick a drink called, hot chocolate, knowing that if it's chocolatey, it probably can't be too bad.

I'm not wrong. The steaming cup of warm dark liquid is so delicious that I drain the whole lot in without pausing to take a breath. It's as sweet as the icing I sometimes get to lick from my fingers once I'm done with the cakes. My mug is replenished the moment I set it down but I decide to pace myself on this one so I still have an appetite for breakfast.

Effie Trinket flutters into the room, somehow looking even more bright and bubbly than usual. "Peeta!" She beams at me with that huge smile plastered across her face. "I was just about to wake you. I hope you've had a good sleep. It's going to be a big, big, big day!" She must have already been up for hours. Her elaborate pink make-up has been carefully painted on a ghostly pale undercoat of what looks to me like white ash. She wears a pastel orange wig that matches sparkling orange embellishments throughout her tightfitting pink suit. Pink and orange. Could there be a worse colour combination? Without a word or exchange, a waiter promptly emerges with a hot mug of what appears to be black coffee.

Haymitch appears next. It's the first time I've ever seen him sober. It does little to improve his appearance though. His red, puffy face is beaded with sweat and his eyes are bloodshot and swollen. The stench of his stale breath fills the entire compartment the moment he enters. Even though he's dressed in some decent clothing, he still manages to appear dishevelled and unkempt. He clutches his head with one hand and rubs at his face with the other, perhaps nursing a nasty headache.

"You didn't have to wake me so early," Haymitch grumbles to Effie Trinket.

"Yes, I did," Effie says. "We have a big, big, big day and you have a job to do."

"You have a job to do," Haymitch retorts, giving the distinct impression that he's trying to insult her but without actually bothering to come up with anything.

"It might not matter to you Haymitch, but it's important that you learn how to behave yourself in public. There's a thing called manners, you know," says Effie Trinket.

"Manners? I don't give a stuff about manners," Haymitch says.

"Well I do," Effie says firmly. "You made me look like an absolute fool in front of the whole country yesterday."

"I made you look like a fool? Sweetheart, you do a fine job of that all by yourself," Haymitch retorts. "In fact, all you have to do is wake up in the morning and you're a fool already. And then you dress up like this," he gestures toward her with a sluggish wave of his hand. "I mean, are you sure they don't have a team of three-year-old designing your outfits? Oh no, that's right, the District 12 escorts have to do their own wardrobe. Well, great job you're doing there sweetheart. He claps his hands together slowly in a sarcastic applause, laughing an ugly, snorting sort of a laugh.

Effie shoots him a pained look. She must be accustomed to Haymitch and his callous remarks by now, so I'm surprised to see how much they seem to bother her. It even looks as though tears might have inched into the corners of her eyes. Without a word, she lowers her head and rushes out of the room. Haymitch plonks himself down next to me, still chuckling to himself.

Not a moment after Haymitch is seated, two wait staff appear to deliver an enormous platter of food for each of us. A large basket of bread rolls, eggs, ham, piles of potatoes, and a large plate of cut fruit served over ice. There's more food here than is humanly possible for a single person to eat over a whole day, let alone in one sitting. Next to my hot chocolate, they place a tall glass of bright orange liquid that, based on the smell, I assume is made from the juice of oranges.

Before I've had a chance try anything, Katniss appears at the door, squinting as if she's still adjusting to the light streaming in from the train windows. She is dressed in the same green top she was in last night and her hair is still up in the elaborate braid that she wore for the reaping. The way it hangs together loosely around her face gives her a soft, gentle appearance.

"Sit down! Sit down!" says Haymitch, waving her over without looking up from the food as he picks at it with his fingers. Katniss slides into the chair across from me and is immediately served a matching tower of food. She surveys the meal, and her eyes come to rest curiously on my mug of hot chocolate.

"They call it hot chocolate," I say. "It's good."

She takes a sip from her mug and then quickly drains the rest of it, just as I had done with my first cup. Being from the Seam, it's possible Katniss has never even tasted chocolate before. Not that I've had it much myself. Only really from the times I'd been able to trade for it with friends in exchange for some bread.

We work our way through the large meal set before us in silence. I take my time, careful not to make myself sick like I did the previous night. But Katniss eats like she may never see food again, shovelling in as much as her small frame can hold. Haymitch doesn't pay much attention to his breakfast other than a few bites here and there, but he takes large gulps from a glass of red juice that he keeps topping up with a fumy clear spirit.

Haymitch's drinking didn't affect me much yesterday. Except as a cause of sympathy for him. But today is different. Everything has changed now that I've set my focus on helping Katniss survive in the Games. Haymitch's behaviour suddenly matters a great deal to me and I find myself getting more and more angry at him. Our success in the Games is heavily dependent on this drunkard. He is supposed to help us craft a strategy, advise us, and train us. He is also responsible for securing sponsors, which often makes the biggest difference between life and death in the arena. But the rich people who could back us usually prefer to make deals with any of the other mentors than to have to talk to Haymitch. No wonder the tributes from District 12 never stand a chance.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice," Katniss says to Haymitch when she finishes her meal.

"Here's some advice. Stay alive." Haymitch says, and then bursts out laughing. Katniss shoots him an unimpressed look then shifts her gaze to me, raising her eyebrows as if asking me to back her up.

I'm already there. "That's very funny," I say, and I swipe at the drink in Haymitch's hand, causing it to smash on the floor. "Only not to us."

Haymitch looks at the glass on the floor, then back at me. His expression isn't angry or even surprised. It's as if he is simply taking a moment to process what had just happened. Then, without warning, his fist connects with my jaw, and I get knocked to the floor. My vision goes dark for a moment and pain shoots through the side of my head. It was a pretty decent hit. A lot more power behind it than I'd expect from a middle-aged drunkard. But between my mother's occasional beatings and my brothers knocking me around, I've learned to take a punch.

There is some sort of exchange between Katniss and Haymitch above, ending with a sharp thud on the table. "Well, what's this?" says Haymitch. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

I pull myself up off the floor and find Katniss leaning over the table, her hand gripping the end of a knife that's been driven into the wood. I scoop up a handful of ice from underneath the fruit platter and go to place it on my jaw.

"No," says Haymitch, grabbing my wrist to stop me. "Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."

"That's against the rules," I protest.

"Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better." Haymitch says. Well, at least he's giving us some advice now. He turns his attention back to Katniss. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?"

In response, Katniss yanks the knife from the wood, takes hold of the blade, and flings it across the room. The knife lodges on a thin seam between two panels. Haymitch and I stare back at her, both a little stunned. I should have known she'd be good at throwing knives too.

Haymitch rises from his chair. "Stand over here. Both of you," he says, nodding to the middle of the room. We obey and he circles around us, prodding us, checking our muscles, and peering at our faces. "Well you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."

Obviously the Hunger Games is not a battle of beauty, but appearance does have a significant role to play. It's entertainment after all. When Katniss and I arrive in the Capitol, we will each be assigned a stylist who will beautify us and design our look at the opening ceremony and pre-Game interviews. The best looking tributes always seem to get more sponsors. This already gives Katniss a good edge.

Haymitch stands back and rubs at his chin. "All right," he says. "I'll make a deal with you. "You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly what I say." It's a pretty pathetic deal, since helping us is actually his job, but it's more than what we had before.

"Fine," I say.

"So help us," says Katniss. "When we get into the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone –"

"One thing at a time," Haymitch interjects. "In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put into the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist."

"But –" Katniss begins.

"No buts. Don't resist," says Haymitch. He grabs a bottle of spirits from the table and disappears out of the room. Just as the door swings shut behind him, the train rockets through a tunnel, causing the carriage to go dark. We must be beneath the large formation of mountains that leads into the Capitol. The mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the Eastern Districts. Tysin told me that it is almost impossible to get to the city from the east except through the tunnel. This geographical advantage was a major factor that led to the districts losing the war. The rebels had to make their way over the mountains, making them easy targets from the air.

The tunnel seems to go on and on, but eventually, the train begins to slow as it emerges into the brightness of the Capitol. Katniss and I can't help but run to the window to get a closer look of something that we'd only ever seen on our television screens. The scene is incredible. Too much to take in. There are scores of colourful glass buildings that tower into the sky, reflecting the radiance of the sun. Luminescent cars scoot along the wide, perfectly paved roads. All around are the odd citizens of the surreal city, with their strangely coloured hair, modified bodies, and bizarre clothing. None of it looks real. Everything is just too perfect. The colours are so vibrant that they almost hurt my eyes. I'm so used to the varied shades of grey that envelope our district.

The people recognise the tribute train rolling into the city and begin to point at us with excitement. Katniss backs away from the window. But like it or not, the show has started. From now until the end of the Games, we will be on display for the Capitol's entertainment. It's time to start playing. Potential sponsors could be watching us at any time and we need to make a good impression. Seeing the crowd staring at me through the window, I do my best to smile warmly and wave with enthusiasm. I hold position like this for a few minutes until the train pulls into the station, blocking us from their view.

When I turn back, Katniss is staring at me, clearly confused by my outburst friendliness towards the Capitol. "Who knows? One of them may be rich," I say meekly. She's probably disgusted in me. Even if her intention is to try to win, I can't imagine her doing it by making nice with the Capitol. She has more integrity than that.

But I can't afford to be like her. I don't have her skills and I certainly don't have her talent for winning people over. It's going to be exhausting and humiliating. Playing this happy character who adores the Capitol and all the people within it. But I have a job to do. The life of the girl that I love is in danger, and I'm already fighting hard to keep her alive.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The treated water in the bathtub stings my skin. Junia, one of the three ladies of my prep team, tells me it's to remove all the layers of grime and filth from District 12.

"I know it stings, darling but you'll be positively glowing by the time we're through with you," she pipes in her silly high-pitched Capitol accent. They all sound so strange. Like they're putting on some kind of pretend voice. Odd vowels, clipped words, and always a hiss on the letter S. Junia, who I assume is at the height of Capitol fashion, looks almost grotesque with her stencilled features, gold facial tattoos, and surgical enhancements that make her cheekbones stand out in two symmetrical ridges.

Junia calls the other two members of the prep team and instructs them to scrub me down. They do so, covering my already raw skin with a gritty substance and rubbing it in vigorously.

"At least this one is already somewhat handsome," a young woman named Prisca says. It's hardly a compliment coming from a woman whose definition of beauty involves dying her whole skin a pale shade of purple.

"Yes, there's not much you can do with the ugly ones," Junia adds with a warm smile that's directed right at me. Is she trying to make a joke? Everything about these women and the context we are in makes it impossible to know how to interpret anything that's going on. I try to force out a smile in return but I'm pretty sure it's no more than an upturned grimace.

Cassia, a tall woman with canary yellow hair and six-centimetre lashes, dries me off and rubs down my entire body with a greasy lotion that soothes my raw skin. I'm then permitted to cover myself with a robe while they prop me up on a table and get to work on shaping my nails, washing and treating my hair, waxing my eyebrows, and plucking stray hairs from my nose. Apparently, my stylist doesn't even want to see me before the team has got me up to some minimum standard. I make no objections, as per Haymitch's instruction.

I've been in the remake centre for three hours by the time they are ready for the final inspection. I'm made to stand in the centre of the room, naked, while the three of them circle me like a pack of hungry sharks, looking for any residual flaws. I'm not generally embarrassed by nudity, but the intensity of this scrutiny would be enough to make a wild bear flush.

"Excellent," Cassia says. "If only we were allowed to do surgical enhancements, then you'd almost pass for a Capitol citizen."

"Wow, if that's true, I must have the best prep team of all the districts," I say earnestly.

This causes them to gush with delight. Oh, my sweet boy!" Prisca says. "I could just eat you up!"

"I think he's ready ladies," says Junia. "Let's get Portia." The others agree and they prance out of the room together.

Even though my prep team have treated me like some sort of prop, I don't mind them really. In their world, they are doing their best to help me and as far as I can discern, they are attempting to be kind.

I stand awkwardly in the middle room while I wait, still naked. The white walls and floor give the space a cold, clinical feeling. I suspect there's no use putting my robe back on. My stylist will certainly instruct me to remove it when she arrives.

The door opens again and a woman enters. She's young. Probably not much older than 20. Compared to my prep team, she looks relatively normal. Her make-up is modest and there's no trace of tattoos, surgical enhancements, or dyes. Even her hair seems to be her natural dark colour, although it's styled to sit almost a foot above her head in a wild looking frizzy sort of a thing, like an eagle's nest. She wears a plain black and white striped suit.

"Hello, Peeta," she says in a soft voice. "I'm Portia, your stylist."

"Lovely to meet you, Portia," I say, extending my hand.

She takes hold of it and shakes gently. "I'm sorry about the lack of dignity, but I just need a moment, and then you can cover up," she says, and circles slowly around me just once before handing me the robe again.

Portia is unlike any of the stylists I've seen on television. Typically, they're much older and their bodies have been so modified from the ongoing pursuit of adhering to the latest trends that they scarcely look human. This young, understated person couldn't be further from the typecast.

"Is this your first year?" I ask "I don't recognise you from previous Games."

"Yes," she says simply.

"Sorry they lumped you with District Twelve," I say.

"Actually, your fellow tribute's stylist, Cinna and I asked for your district," she says.

I'm a bit taken aback by this. Surely no one has ever asked for District 12 before. Our tributes never win, so there's little glory in it for them. And since the costumes for the Opening Ceremony are supposed to reflect the function of the district, we generally have to wear something coal related. Not a whole lot you can do with that.

"Why don't we sit down for lunch and talk things through a little," Portia suggests. She says it in such a way that makes it seem like she's asking permission. It's a sharp contrast to my prep team, who would have been less interested in my opinion than going out in public without makeup. It makes me feel kind of suspicious. What could she be up to?

I follow her through to a grand sitting room and take a seat on a small purple couch. Portia positions herself on a second couch across from me and presses a button on the side of the table between us. The top splits in two and slides out, making room for a platform that contains our lunch to rise from below. There's chicken and a creamy sauce dressed with chunks of cooked orange, some white grain, baby green peas and onions, and rolls shaped like flowers. There's even a sweet smelling yellow pudding for dessert.

"Cinna and I have thought a lot about your costumes for the opening ceremony," Portia says. "What we would like to do is dress you and Katniss in complementing outfits. How do you feel about that?"

This time she is definitely asking for my opinion. But why? It doesn't matter one bit whether I like it or not, I will be dressed in whatever they choose to dress me in and then paraded around like an animal on show. Why would she care how I feel about it? She seems sincere though, so I know she's not just making fun of me. "I trust whatever it is you recommend," I say.

"Okay, thank you. Now, as always, your costumes are to reflect the industry of your district. In the past, that has often meant coalminers outfits," she says. "But we think that's a little boring, and our job is to make you unforgettable."

I brace myself for what is to come. One year, in attempt to make a memorable impression, the tributes from our district were stark naked and covered in black coal dust.

"So instead of focusing on the coal itself," Portia continues, "We wanted to create something that represents what we do with coal."

"Don't you just burn coal?" I ask.

"Exactly. How do you feel about fire, Peeta?" she says with a grin.

"Well, I work with flames every day, so I don't mind it, but I'm not too eager to be set alight if that's what you mean," I say. At the very least I want to make it into the Games alive and relatively unscathed.

"It won't be real fire. Just a realistic synthetic flame that Cinna and I created. You won't feel a thing."

I want to believe her. She seems so genuine in the role of being on my side. But there's a niggling part of me that wonders if she's fabricating this last part to ensure I don't resist as she fits me into the costume. Maybe that's the whole reason why she's playing the nice game.

After lunch, Portia squeezes me into a simple black unitard with shiny black boots that come up to my knees. She carefully fastens a flowing cape around my neck that is designed in streams of orange, yellow, and red. There's a matching headpiece to complete the look. Cinna will apparently set the coloured pieces on fire just before our chariot enters the streets.

I'm relieved when Portia covers my face with just a thin layer of powdery make-up. Some of the boys in previous years are given fake eyelashes, colourful eye-shadows, and bright lipsticks, making it hard to distinguish the boys from the girls.

When the final preparations are complete, I follow Portia and my prep team out to the lobby of the remake centre. Katniss is already there waiting with her own prep team. The matching black outfit hugs her body, showing off every perfect curve. Incredibly, her hair is styled in her usual way with a single braid that hangs down her back, and they have kept her face relatively clear of make-up. She just looks more, her. Breathtakingly gorgeous.

The prep team are beaming with excitement about how amazing we are going to look. Portia and Cinna receive congratulations from everyone and then we are led down to the bottom of the remake centre, which is essentially a huge stable filled with the horses and chariots that will guide us through the Capitol streets.

The ceremony is about to begin. Pairs of tributes are being loaded into their chariots in front of us. Nerves start to swell in the pit of my stomach as I hear the excited hum of the crowd that lines the streets all the way to the City Circle where our chariot ride will conclude. The four horses that will lead Katniss and I out are coal black. Apparently they are so well trained we don't need to steer them. Portia and Cinna load us into our carriage and carefully position our bodies.

I want to say something to Katniss. To tell her how stunning she looks. But then I picture her rolling her eyes at me and once again, the absence of courage seals my mouth shut.

Katniss breaks the silence between us, whispering under her breath. "What do you think?" I stare back at her, my stomach twisting into a knot. Is really she asking for my opinion on how she looks? "About the fire?" she clarifies.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Of course she wasn't' asking about her appearance. "I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," I say through clenched teeth so that no one will make out what I'm saying.

"Deal," she says. "I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle."

It's true. He might have stepped in if he'd known they were planning to send us into the arena as burn victims. "Where is Haymitch anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this stuff?" I ask.

"With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame," Katniss says. We both crack up laughing. I think we're so nervous about being burned alive that it's the only sensible thing to do at this point.

The opening ceremony music begins and the gigantic doors slide open to reveal the crowd pressing at the edge of the street. The tributes ride out one at a time, starting with District 1. Their chariot is pulled by four white horses. You can hear the roar of the crowd as they admire the glittering costumes covered in Jewels. The tributes from District 1 always has the nicest outfits. They make luxury items for the Capitol.

Time races past and before I know it, District 11 preparing to launch in front of us. Cinna appears next to me with a lighted torch. "Here we go then," he says, and sets our capes and headpieces alight. My muscles tense, preparing for the pain of the oncoming burn. But there's nothing except a small tickling sensation as the flames lap around me. "It works," he says, not trying to conceal his relief. Then he tucks his hand under Katniss's chin. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!"

He jumps off the chariot and shouts something up at us. But we can't make it out over the booming noise of the crowd and music. He shouts again and gestures by clasping his hands together.

Katniss turns to me. "What's he saying?" her appearance completely floors me. Her grey eyes reflect the dancing flames and her face is lit up like the blazing sun, as if she's glowing from the inside out.

"I think he said for us to hold hands," I say. I grab Katniss's right hand with my left and we both look to Cinna for confirmation. Cinna nods and gives a thumbs-up, just as our chariot begins to roll out into the streets.

I have to work hard to pull my attention away from Katniss and the sudden thrill of holding her hand. My job for the 20-minute ride into the city is to work the crowd. Any potential sponsors will be out there watching, and we need to make an impression.

The crowd halts for a few moments when they catch sight of us, as if collectively taking in a huge breath. Then they go absolutely wild. Every eye is trained on our chariot and they are cheering and shouting, "District Twelve!" Our live images light up the massive television screens above, capturing our illuminated faces and the trail of fire streaming behind us. I'm smiling and waving to the people of the Capitol, but the close-up on Katniss's face reveals a stony expression. She must see it too, because she suddenly lifts her chin high and beams back at the crowd, waving her free hand.

As we make our way through the streets, Katniss even starts to blow kisses at the audience. This really sets them off. They shout our names and begin to throw flowers in our direction. Katniss manages to catch a red rose. She gives it a delicate sniff and blows a kiss back in the direction of the giver. A hundred hands reach up to catch it and then they begin chanting her name, calling for more kisses.

The excitement of it all is infectious. I can feel the blood pumping through my veins and the energy rising up inside me. As I absorb their admiration, I even forget for a few moments that these are the same people who will soon be cheering for us to kill one another.

The roar of the crowd continues all the way to the City Circle. Every window of the buildings that surround it is packed with Capitol citizens.

As we begin to slow, Katniss goes to loosen her grip on my hand. But before I even think about what I'm doing, I tighten my grasp. "No, don't let go of me," I say, staring into her flickering eyes. I'm not ready for our moment of intimacy to end. "Please, I might fall out of this thing."

"Okay," she says, and maintains her hold of me.

The 12 chariots fill the loop of the City Circle and come to a halt right in front of President Snow's glorious mansion. The music ends in a triumphant flourish. The president emerges on the balcony above to give the same official welcome he does every year. He is a surprisingly small man with paper-white hair. Much less a person of grandeur up close compared to the man we're used to seeing on our television screens at home. Throughout the speech, the overhead screens cut to the faces of the tributes and I'm delighted to find that Katniss and I are receiving far more than our fair share of airtime. And who would argue? The day is turning into evening and the fire that surrounds us is utterly captivating in the fading light, drawing everyone's attention in.

The familiar anthem of Panem plays and we are paraded around the circle one last time before we all disappear into the bottom of the Training Centre. The moment the doors shut behind us, our prep teams swarm around us. They are giddy with excitement over the success of our costumes. The rest of the tributes, on the other hand, are shooting us dirty looks. Our popularity with the audience did not go unnoticed. This sets us up to have a few enemies already. Hopefully the gain of sponsors will have been worth the cost.

Portia and Cinna help us down from the carriage and carefully remove our capes and headdresses before extinguishing the flames with some kind of spray. Katniss finally releases her grip on my hand and we both massage the feeling back into our palms.

"Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there," I say. It's a feeble excuse, but she seems to accept it.

"It didn't show," she reassures me. "I'm sure no one noticed."

"I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you. You should wear flames more often," I say. "They suit you." The words escaped my mouth before I knew what I was saying.

Katniss smiles back at me, then, standing on her tiptoes, she reaches up and gives me a gentle kiss on the cheek.

I'm so stunned that my feet really do become unsteady and I feel like I'm about to fall backward. Did that just happen? Did Katniss really just kiss me? What does it mean? Is it possible that Katniss could actually be developing feelings toward me? I try to tell myself to calm down, to not overreact. It was just a kiss on the cheek after all. She probably just got caught up in the excitement of the evening. Or maybe she is just trying to be kind, perceiving my desire to hold her hand as genuine fear. Or maybe she is feeling vulnerable herself and she is looking for someone to connect with. There are so many possible explanations, most of them unrelated to her feelings toward me. But my heart is racing and I can't stop a flicker of hope from rising up inside me.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The Training Centre tower is a building designed exclusively for the use of tributes and their teams. It is only occupied during these few short weeks in the lead up to the Games each year. It is where we will sleep, eat, and learn combat and survival skills for the arena. Each district has its own dedicated floor that can be reached by stepping into an elevator and pressing the number of your district. The only time I've ridden an elevator was yesterday in the Justice Building when we said our goodbyes. But that was a small, enclosed box that moved more slowly than what it would take to walk up the stairs. This one races up at lightning speed and is built with crystal walls so you can see out as you ascend upwards. During the first ride, I got such a fright when we were rocketed into the air that I felt a little woozy by the time I stepped out. Katniss, on the other hand, seemed exhilarated by the experience.

Effie Trinket continues to chaperone us around everywhere, ensuring that we know where to be and at what time. Effie's default status appears to be one of noxious positivity, but her excitement about our performance and costumes during the opening ceremony sent her into overdrive. I think we're the first team she's ever had who's made some kind of notable impression. She assures us that she knows everyone who's anyone in the Capitol and has been talking us up all day, trying to impress potential sponsors.

"I've been very mysterious though," she says. Her eyes narrow. "Because, of course, Haymitch hasn't bothered to tell me your strategies. But I've done my best with what I had to work with. How Katniss sacrificed herself for her sister. How you've both successfully struggled to overcome the barbarism of your district."

Barbarism. She's one to talk. Coming from a city that takes delight in watching children fight one another to the death.

"Everyone has their reservations, naturally. You being from the coal district. But I said, and this was very clever of me, I said, 'Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls!'" Effie beams at us so proudly that neither Katniss nor I have the heart to correct her.

Pearls come from oysters, of course. Effie is probably thinking of diamonds, but they don't come from coal either. It's possible to make diamonds from graphite. There's a machine that does it in District 1. But we don't mine graphite. That was the role of District 13 before it was destroyed. Do the people Effie has been talking to know the difference? Do they even care?

"Unfortunately, I can't seal the sponsor deals for you. Only Haymitch can do that," says Effie soberly. "But don't worry, I'll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary." Although she may be a little dim, you can't criticise her enthusiasm.

My individual living quarters is huge. There's a bedroom with a lounge area, a dressing room, and a full bathroom with a tub and separate shower. Everything is plush and luxurious, and there are gadgets and buttons everywhere that do who knows what. I can program my wardrobe to suit my taste, spin a dial to make the windows zoom in and out over the city, and control the lights with just my voice. I can even whisper a type of food into a microphone from an endless menu and it just appears through a miniature doorway in less than a minute.

But even with all these little pleasures, I find myself wanting to escape. This room is set up to mimic the living arrangements of the Capitol people. I don't want any part of it. I throw on a simple outfit and head back out to the dining area. The room is empty except for Cinna, who stands by the window looking out at the evening lights of the Capitol.

"Hello Peeta," he says when he sees me coming. Like Portia, Cinna has an understated look about him. There are no obvious alterations to his appearance aside from a thin layer of gold eyeliner across his lashes. Even his hair, which appears to be a natural shade of brown, is cropped short and not styled.

"Hello," I say.

"I know it's hard to be in a place like this. The… luxury of it all," he says soberly, his gaze returning to the window. Cinna's perceptiveness takes me by surprise. I had been trying to put on a happy face but he's seen right through it. I want to tell him about my disgust for the Capitol. I feel like he would understand, maybe even agree with me. But I can't. There are no obvious cameras and microphones to be seen, but you get the sense that every conversation, every expression, is being closely monitored.

"It's just, everything is so different from home," I say.

"Yes, it must be quite a shock coming here and seeing another way of living," he says carefully. "How about I show you the roof and you can get some fresh air?"

I agree and he leads the way up a flight of stairs that takes us out into the cool evening air. The view of the city is breathtaking. There are a million dazzling lights scattered through the towering buildings. Down on the street, dozens of people buzz around and shout things out to one another, still high on the evening's festivities.

What must it be like to live here? In a world where there's no shortage of anything. Where all your meals arrive at the touch of a button. Where medicine and doctors are available to all. Where no one goes to bed cold, hungry, or exhausted half to death from the day's labour. What do these people do all day besides dress up, decorate their bodies, and be entertained by killing the district children? The unfairness of it all is unbearable.

"Why are the tributes allowed up here?" I ask Cinna. "Aren't they worried that we might decide to jump right over the side?"

"It's not possible," he says. He holds his hand out into the empty space beyond the rails. There is a zap and a flash of light and he jerks his hand back. "If you try to, the electric field will throw you right back onto the roof."

"They've thought of everything," I say.

The wind picks up and I hear a beautiful chorus of bells from across the roof. "What's that?" I ask.

"The wind chimes in the garden. It's quite spectacular, let me show you," he says. I follow him across the open space to a large bed of flowers and potted trees. From the branches above hang hundreds of wind chimes that seem to sing together in perfect harmony. The flowers are unlike anything I've ever seen back in District 12. I wonder if these are a natural species or whether the Capitol engineers them like the muttations. The delicious scents and dazzling colours lead me to think that it's probably the latter.

After a few minutes of wandering up and down the colourful rows of flowers, Cinna suggests that we head back down to dinner. I'm getting pretty hungry anyway.

We join Portia out on the dining room balcony and the three of us make idle chitchat while we wait for the others make their way to the table. Both stylists are quite pleasant to talk to. So different to all the other Capitol people we've encountered so far. Their modest appearances and plain accents more closely resemble the people of the districts than those who reside in the city. But it's not just that. They don't get particularly excited about the Games, which is in glaring contrast to all the other stylists who live and breathe them. Portia and Cinna seem disinterested or perhaps even contemptuous towards the Games. It makes me like them even more.

When Katniss and Effie Trinket arrive, we all join them at the table. Haymitch doesn't turn up until dinner is served. It's the first time we've seen him since the train. He fails to hide his discomfort as we all stare at him. The usually dishevelled man is clean and well groomed. He's wearing smart, fitted clothing and appears to be pretty well sober. He's even run a comb through his thinning, sandy-coloured hair. Who knows, maybe he really will stick to our agreement and keep himself together well enough to help us.

A young man dressed in a white tunic silently offers us all glasses of wine. I refuse; Haymitch has put me right off the idea of alcohol. Plus, meals are a time when we are supposed to discuss strategy, so I want to maintain a clear head. Katniss accepts her glass, but only gets halfway through it before putting it off to one side.

Effie and Haymitch manage to be pleasant to one another throughout the meal. But there's a subtle tension between them that could easily go unnoticed if you weren't looking for it. The way Effie turns away whenever Haymitch looks in her direction, how Haymitch directs the conversation towards anyone but Effie. Both of them are full of compliments for our stylists regarding the success of our opening ceremony costumes. Haymitch seems to think it's given us quite an advantage when it comes to securing sponsors.

Like on the train, the meal is served in courses. There is a small mushroom soup, a salad of greens with miniature tomatoes, rare roast beef sliced so thin you can practically see through it, a bed of noodles in a green sauce, and cheese that dissolves on your tongue served alongside sweet blue grapes. The young waiters are all dressed in the same white tunics and move silently to and from the table, keeping our platters and glasses topped up.

The conversation shifts focus to our interview costumes when a young girl with dark red hair sets a decadent looking cake on the table before us and lights it on fire. The blaze engulfs it briefly and then the flames flicker around the edges for a minute or so before finally going out.

"What makes it burn? Is it alcohol?" Katniss says looking up at the redheaded girl. "That's the last thing I wa – oh! I know you!"

Everyone at the table goes still; their eyes fixed on Katniss. The girl shakes her head in denial and hurries back into the kitchen, clearly uncomfortable.

"Don't be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know an Avox?" Effie snaps. "The very thought." It's clear from her tone and from the tense expressions around the table that being associated with this girl could get Katniss into serious trouble.

"What's an Avox?" Katniss asks.

"Someone who's committed a crime. They cut out her tongue so she can't speak," says Haymitch. "She's probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you'd know her."

"And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of them unless it's to give an order," says Effie. "Of course, you don't really know her."

"No, I guess not, I just —" Katniss perceives the danger she has put herself in and fumbles to find an excuse for why she thought she'd recognised the girl.

I snap my fingers. "Delly Cartwright. That's who it is. I kept thinking she looks familiar as well. Then I realised she is a dead ringer for Delly." Delly Cartwright is a girl in our year at school that doesn't really look anything like the redheaded Avox girl, but Katniss immediately picks up on my meaning.

"Of course, that's who I was thinking of. It must be the hair," she says.

"Something about the eyes too," I add.

The energy at the table relaxes again. "Oh, well. If that's all it is," says Cinna. "And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol is burned off. I ordered it specially in honour of your fiery debut."

We finish off the cake and move to a sitting room to watch the replay of the opening ceremonies. It's clear right away that our costumes are miles more impressive than everyone else's.

"Whose idea was the hand holding?" asks Haymitch.

"Cinna's," says Portia.

"Just the perfect touch of rebellion," says Haymitch. "Very nice."

Rebellion? I hadn't thought of it like that until now but he's right. The Capitol does not expect the tributes to be friendly to one another. Our willingness to act as a happy team shows that we are not afraid, and we will not play the Games the way they want us to. All the other pairs stand as far apart as they can, refusing to touch or even acknowledge each other.

"Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Meet me for breakfast and I'll tell you exactly how I want you to play it," says Haymitch to Katniss and I. "Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk."

We follow his direction and walk back down the corridor toward our rooms. I want to ask her about the redheaded girl, but it's dangerous. Someone is likely watching. Perhaps if I ask in an indirect way she'll be able to covertly fill in the details.

I pause in front of her doorway. "So, Delly Cartwright. Imagine finding her lookalike here." Katniss hesitates, seeming to get lost in thought for a long few moments. When she doesn't respond, I offer a different strategy. "Have you been on the roof yet?" She shakes her head. "Cinna showed me. You can practically see the whole city. The wind's the bit loud though," I tell her. Even if there is surveillance on the roof, I doubt it could detect a conversation through the bellowing winds the music of the wind chimes.

Katniss catches my meaning. "Can we just go up?"

"Sure, come on," I say.

The temperature outside has dropped significantly and the crowds have mostly cleared from the streets. You can still hear the cars though, and the occasional shout from someone below. We stand at the railing on the edge of the roof and look out at the sparkling city for a long while before I eventually speak. "I asked Cinna why they let us up here. Weren't they worried that some of the tributes might decide to jump right over the side?"

"What'd he say?" Katniss asks.

"You can't," I say, stretching my hand out into the empty space to show her the force field. "Some kind of electric field throws you back on the roof."

"Always worried about our safety," she says. "Do you think they're watching us now?"

"Maybe," I admit. "Come and see the garden." If there is one place in the Training Centre where we can talk without being overheard, it will be among the chimes that twinkle loudly in the wind.

Katniss bends down to examine one of the blossoms. "We were hunting in the woods one day," she begins in a whisper without looking up. "Hidden, waiting for game."

"You and your father?" I whisper back.

"No, my friend Gale. Suddenly all the birds stopped singing at once. Except one. As if it were giving a warning call. And then we saw her. I'm sure it was the same girl. A boy was with her. Their clothes were tattered. They had dark circles under their eyes from no sleep. They were running as if their lives depended on it," Katniss says. She pauses for a long moment before continuing.

"The hovercraft appeared out of nowhere. I mean, one moment the sky was empty and the next it was there. It didn't make a sound, but they saw it. A net dropped down on the girl and carried her up, fast, so fast like the elevator. They shot some sort of spear through the boy. It was attached to a cable and they hauled him up as well. But I'm certain he was dead. We heard the girl scream once. The boy's name, I think. Then it was gone, the hovercraft. Vanished into thin air. And the birds began to sing again, as if nothing had happened."

"Did they see you?" I ask.

"I don't know. We were under a shelf of rock," she replies.

Katniss stands back up and stares out into the open space in front of her. Her face looks deeply troubled and I wonder if she somehow feels responsible for what happened to the pair in the woods that day. Of course, there's nothing she could have done, but that wouldn't stop her from absorbing responsibility.

I suddenly notice that her body is trembling. The wind has picked up and the evening air is getting colder by the second. "You're shivering," I say, taking my jacket off. When I go to wrap it around her shoulders, she begins to take a step back, but then stops herself and lets me put it on.

"They were from here?" I ask, securing a button at Katniss's neck. She nods. "Where do you suppose they were going?"

"I don't know that," she says.

Beyond District 12, there's pretty much just wilderness except for the ruins of District 13, and no one could live there. The Capitol often airs shots of the destroyed buildings that continue to smoulder from the toxic bombs. I had once heard a rumour that there was an underground village of people living beneath the ruins. Perhaps the boy and the girl had heard this too and were trying to make their way there. It seems so unlikely though. The notion of a secret community of people living outside the Capitol's reign is just the sort of thing people like to believe. It gives them hope.

"Or why would they leave here?" Katniss says looking out at the city once more.

"I'd leave here," I blurt out. It was loud enough to be heard above the cover of the wind chimes. I look around nervously, as if I expect someone to jump out at me. I force out a laugh. "I'd go home now if they let me. But you have to admit, the food's prime." Hopefully my remark is passed over as just a scared tribute who wants to go home, not someone questioning the glory of the Capitol. Still, it feels risky to stay out here much longer. "It's getting chilly. We better go in," I say.

As we make our way back toward our rooms, my mind turns to Katniss's mention of Gale as she retold the story of the Avox girl. A surge of jealousy rises up in my gut and I feel compelled to find out more. I want to just come out and ask if they're dating, but that would be much too obvious.

"Your friend Gale. He's the one who took your sister away at the reaping?" I ask casually.

"Yes. Do you know him?" she asks.

"Not really. I hear the girls talk about him a lot. I thought he was your cousin or something. You favour each other," I say.

"No, we're not related," she says, refusing to give anything much away.

I nod, and probe a little further. "Did he come to say goodbye to you?" "Yes," she says, peering back at me. I might just be getting a little paranoid, but I get the impression that she's a little suspicious. "So did your father. He brought me cookies," she adds.

"Really?" I say with disbelief, all thoughts of Gale evaporating in an instant by this strange revelation. My father? Cookies? I try to make sense of this in my head. It's an odd thing for him to do. Maybe he was showing kindness in attempt to persuade Katniss not to kill me, or at least to kill me quickly. But that doesn't seem like something my father would do. He is not manipulative. He's always been a totally honest man. The explanation is probably much more innocent.

"Well, he likes you and your sister. I think he wishes he had a daughter instead of a household of boys," I explain. It's half true. My father really does like Katniss and Prim. But not really because he wanted girls. He was once in love with Katniss's mother. It's a secret that my father shared with just me. I doubt that Katniss has any awareness of it and I don't think now is time to drop something like this on her. But she is still looking at me, demanding further explanation.

"He knew your mother when they were kids," I add.

"Oh, yes," she says, sounding surprised. "She grew up in town."

We're at Katniss's door. She removes my jacket and hands it back to me. "See you in the morning then."

"See you," I say.

While we've been out, someone has been into my room to tidy up. My black unitard sits neatly folded on top of the drawers and fresh towels have been laid out on the bed. But I'm too tired to think about having a shower now, so I push them off and remove my clothes. I don't even bother finding something else to sleep in. Besides, the sheets are soft and warm against my bare skin. It's so cosy that I fall asleep within minutes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

I wake much later than usual. It's about six o'clock judging by the grey light seeping through my large windows. The Capitol has a cold, misty look about it, although it's not possible to gauge the temperature from inside. The windows don't open. In the absence of the fresh air I normally wake up to back home, I feel like I'm being slowly suffocated.

I drag myself out of bed and step into the shower. The large panel on the side has over a hundred options for you to choose from, allowing you to regulate temperature, water pressure, soaps, shampoos, scents, oils, and massaging sponges. I try to program just a simple hot shower, but end up getting doused in oil that has a distinct smell of sweet roses. Great. Just what I need. It's the first morning of training and I'm going to walk in smelling like a bunch of flowers.

For the next three days, we'll be thrown into a gymnasium together with the other tributes. We will be given the opportunity to learn everything from wielding weapons, to sourcing food, to keeping hidden. On the final day, each of us will be assessed on our skills in private before the Gamemakers. I don't expect that I will do particularly well, and I'm not looking forward to letting the other tributes discover what an easy target I am.

When I step out of the shower and onto the mat, I'm engulfed with hot air from all sides. No need for the towels after all. I place my hand on a small box that sends a current through my hair, parting and drying it in an instant. An outfit has been left for me at the front of my closet. Tightfitting black pants, a long-sleeved burgundy tunic, and leather shoes.

We haven't been given an exact time to meet for breakfast but I'm hungry so I head out to the dining room, knowing that in this place, the food will be ready and waiting. Haymitch and I arrive at the same time. Katniss is already there, dressed in an identical outfit to me. She sits back with an empty plate in front of her, casually dipping a bread roll into a mug of hot chocolate, just as I had done on the train. We all bid each other good morning and then I follow Haymitch over to a long buffet table. There must be at least twenty dishes to choose from. I avoid anything that doesn't look familiar, filling my plate with eggs, sausages, beans, and a salad of fruit topped with yoghurt. It's a lot of food to get through, but I've got to load up with as much energy as I can if I'm going to make it through the day.

When Haymitch has finished several platters of the same stew, he pulls a flask from his pocket, takes a long drink, and leans forward with his elbows on the table. "So, let's get down to business. Training. First off, if you like, I will coach you separately. Decide now."

"Why would you train us separately?" Katniss asks.

"Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about," says Haymitch.

I exchange a look with Katniss. The more I know about what she is capable of, the more I will be able to help her in the arena. "I don't have any secret skills," I say quickly. "And I already know what yours is, right? I mean, I've eaten enough of your squirrels."

Katniss considers this for a moment. "You can coach us together," she tells Haymitch. I nod in agreement.

"All right, so give me some idea of what you can do," says Haymitch.

"I can't do anything," I say. "Unless you count baking bread."

"Sorry, I don't," he says. "Katniss. I already know you're handy with a knife."

"Not really. But I can hunt," she says. "With a bow and arrow."

"And you're good?" asks Haymitch.

She takes a moment to think about this. "I'm all right," she says.

She's a lot better than all right. She would undoubtedly be the best hunter in District 12. There's probably never been anyone better, aside from her father. She reliably catches enough food to feed her family and also to trade in the market for other necessities. "She is excellent," I say. "My father buys her squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body. She hits every one in the eye. It's the same with the rabbits she sells the butcher. She can even bring down deer."

Katniss narrows her eyes at me. "What are you doing?" I'm a little surprised by the edge of suspicion in her voice.

"What are you doing?" I retort. "If he's going to help you, he has to know what you're capable of. Don't underrate yourself."

"What about you? I've seen you in the market. You can lift hundred pound bags of flour," she snaps. "Tell him that. That's not nothing."

This aggravates me. She can't in her right mind believe that my ability to lift heavy things is at all comparable to being able to kill things with a knife or bow and arrows.

"Yes, and I'm sure the arena will be full of bags of flour from me to chuck at people," I say sarcastically. "It's not like being able to use a weapon. You know it isn't."

Katniss doesn't respond to me, but turns her attention to Haymitch. "He can wrestle. He came second in our school competition last year, only after his brother."

"What use is that? How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?" I argue.

"There's always hand to hand combat. All you need to come up with is a knife, and you'll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I'm dead." Katniss's voice is growing in anger.

"But you won't! You'll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows. You know what my mother said to me when she came to say good-bye, as if to cheer me up, she said maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realised, she didn't mean me, she meant you!" The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

"Oh, she meant you," Katniss says, waving her hand in dismissal.

"She said, 'She's a survivor, that one.' _She_ is." The pain in my voice is breaking through as I think back to the final moments with my mother. I try to hold back the tears that are threatening to form in my eyes.

Katniss pauses, her mouth slightly ajar, unsure of what else to say. Her eyes flicker down and settle on the roll in her hands. "Only because someone helped me," she says softly. I know she means me, and that day in the rain when I tossed her the bread.

"People will help you in the arena. They'll be tripping over each other to sponsor you," I say soberly.

"No more than you," she defends.

I look over at Haymitch and roll my eyes. "She has no idea. The effect she can have." How can she be so completely oblivious? She doesn't see it at all. Doesn't get what everyone else sees in her. Why almost every citizen of District 12 shared in a joint rebellion against the Capitol to salute her at the reaping. She is admired by the girls, loved by the boys, and held in the highest esteem by the people of our district. How can she miss this?

After about a minute of awkward, bitter silence, Haymitch breaks in. "Well, then. Well, well, well. Katniss, there is no guarantee there'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?"

"I know a few basic snares," she mutters, still clearly annoyed.

"That may be significant in terms of food," says Haymitch. "And Peeta, she's right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Centre, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?" Katniss and I nod.

"One last thing. In public, I want you by each other's side every single minute," says Haymitch. We both start to object. Neither of us feels very much like being around each other with the current state of tension.

Haymitch slams his hand on the table. "Every minute! It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said! You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training."

Katniss charges off to her room and I trail a few paces behind. She disappears through her door, slamming it loudly behind her, making sure I know how angry she is. I slump down on my bed in despair and frustration. I'm annoyed at myself for the things that I said. I shouldn't have blurted out that stuff about what my mother told me, or attacked Katniss for her superior skills and inevitable popularity. Her tough demeanour makes it easy to forget that underneath, she must be scared, doubting and second-guessing her own abilities like anyone else would in the same situation. Having me get all defensive and angry certainly isn't going to help anything.

I'm sure I've now blown any real chance I had to share a kind of close connection with Katniss. The kiss she gave me after the opening ceremony seems like a far off memory. Now it appears as though she wants nothing at all to do with me. I guess it's fair enough. I have to keep reminding myself that she assumes I'm going to try and kill her. It would be hard to like anyone under these circumstances. I need to move on and just accept the fact that even being friends is too much to ask at this point. I let out an inward groan as I imagine the coming days. It's going to be hard to be around her as we force ourselves to make pleasant conversation, knowing that it will never amount to anything, knowing that it's the closest I'll ever get to her.

Following Haymitch's instructions, I meet Effie and Katniss back at the elevator at a little before ten. Katniss refuses to look at me as we make the journey to the underground training room at the bottom of the tower. The doors open to reveal an enormous gymnasium, filled with every kind of training equipment imaginable. All the other tributes are there already, standing around in a tense circle. Someone pins a cloth of square fabric on my back with the number 12 on it. The others all have the same patch with their own district number, but Katniss and I are the only ones dressed alike.

When we are all gathered, a tall, athletic woman named Atala steps up to explain how the training will work. Experts in each skill will remain at their stations. We are free to travel to and from any area we choose, according to our mentor's instructions. The stations will teach survival, combat, or evasion skills. We are not allowed to engage in any fighting exercises with the other tributes. There are assistants on hand if we want to practice with a partner.

As Atala speaks, I look around at the competition. It's the first time we've all been assembled together in plain clothes. I size up fairly well against many of the other tributes. Most of the kids from the poorer districts have been underfed their entire lives. Their small, bony frames reveal the years of malnourishment. A few days of Capitol food has done nothing to fill in their hollow cheeks. Being raised in a bakery, I have at least never had to go long without food, and with Katniss's hunting abilities, she's managed to keep herself well fed and strong too. Nonetheless, Katniss's naturally small stature means that almost all of the boys and at least half of the girls are larger than her.

Then there are the kids from the wealthier districts, the ones who have been well fed and expertly trained for the Games throughout their lives. The volunteers. These are usually the tributes from 1, 2, and 4. This year is no exception. It's technically against the rules to train tributes before they are selected for the Games, but the kids from these districts can afford to do it, and clearly no one is policing it. Back home, we call them the Career Tributes, or just the Careers for short. The winner is almost always one of them. The boys from these districts, as well as the one from District 11, are all older and larger than me.

When Atala releases us, the Careers head straight for the deadliest looking weapons and start showing off their skills, trying to intimidate the rest of us. I turn away, refusing to give them any attention. But Katniss watches them nervously, biting the edges of her nails.

I give her arm a gentle nudge. "Where would you like to start?" I ask.

Katniss peers around the room. "Suppose we tie some knots," she suggests.

"Right you are," I say, and follow her over to the empty station. The trainer seems pleased to have some students, even more so when he realises Katniss already has skills in this area. He shows us a supposedly a simple trap that will leave a competitor dangling by a leg in a tree. Katniss masters it easily. I flail around and finally get the hang of it after about an hour, but I'm not sure I'll be able to remember it by the time we get into the arena.

We move on to camouflage. Clearly another unpopular station but a definite favourite for me. Finally something I'm good at. I spend a long time mixing combinations of colours from mud, clay, and berry juices to paint a realistic design of a tree trunk on my arm. The trainer seems pleased with my work and is full of praise and encouragement. Katniss simply looks at it with curiosity.

"I do the cakes," I tell her.

"The cakes?" she says, confused. "What cakes?"

"At home. The iced ones, for the bakery," I say.

She peers down more closely at the design on my arm. "It's lovely. If only you could frost someone to death," she says, irritated.

"Don't be so superior," I say. But then I remember how angry I was myself this morning for being so defensive, and I try to lighten the mood again. "You can never tell what you'll find in the arena. Say it's actually a gigantic cake –"

"Say we move on," she interrupts harshly.

I decide to back off and stop trying to force a friendly relationship between us. The more I push it, the worse it will get. It's better if I just leave her to herself.

The next three days pass with Katniss and I moving silently from station to station. Still acting like a team as instructed, but refusing to take it any further. We avoid archery and weightlifting, but fail Haymitch's direction to appear mediocre in other areas. Katniss aces the edible plants test and is exceptional at throwing knives. I don't do too badly in this area either, and I surprise myself with my skill in hand-to-hand combat. Maybe all that wrestling could help after all. Katniss and I also pick up the few new skills, starting fires, making a shelter, and setting snares. I grow in confidence as each day passes.

The Gamemakers make a few appearances throughout our training. Twenty or so men and women dressed in deep purple robes. They sit in the elevated stands surrounding the gymnasium. Sometimes they wander about and take notes. Other times they ignore us completely while they fix their attention on the banquet that is set before them. I do notice, however, that they seem to be particularly interested in Katniss. Several times I look over to find their eyes trained on her.

At lunchtimes, all twenty-four tributes are required to eat together in a large dining hall. The food is arranged in carts around the room. You serve yourself and then try to figure out who you will sit with. Most of the tributes try to eat alone where they can. The Careers all sit in a rowdy gang, as if proving that they don't need to fear one another. Katniss and I eat together of course, working hard to maintain a friendly conversation as we eat.

We take it in turns to pick a topic while the other listens and asks questions. I tell her about the breads in our basket and how the caterers have been careful to include types from each district along with the refined fluffy stuff from the Capitol. The fish shaped loaf with flecks of seaweed from District 4. The crescent moon shaped rolls sprinkled with seeds from District 11.

"And there you have it," I say, scooping the breads back into the basket.

"You certainly know a lot," Katniss says.

"Only about bread," I say. "Okay, now laugh as if I said something funny." We both attempt to give a convincing laugh and pretend not to notice the stares from around the room. "All right, I'll keep smiling pleasantly and you talk," I say. Haymitch's direction for us to be friendly is starting to wear me down. I had dreamt about talking to Katniss for so long. Thought deeply about the things I would say to her if I ever built up the courage to start a conversation. But all I get instead is a forced dialogue about mundane or made up things where Katniss pretends to take interest in what I'm saying.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I was chased by a bear?" Katniss asks me.

"No, but it sounds fascinating," I say.

She goes on to tell me a surprisingly funny story where she had challenged a black bear to the rights of a beehive. The bear won, and Katniss was very lucky to escape. Katniss forces her face to become animated as she talks, while I ask encouraging questions and laugh in all the right places.

On the second day of training, I notice the girl from District 11 watching us closely as we move about the gymnasium. She is the tiny one that doesn't look a day older than ten. She has piercing dark eyes and smooth brown skin. With her slight frame, it would take about three of her to measure up to one of the larger tributes.

I decide to mention something about it to Katniss during our lesson on spear throwing. "I think we have a shadow," I whisper, gesturing behind us.

Katniss takes a brief glance around to locate girl before turning back and throwing a spear directly into the centre of the dummy's chest.

I ready myself with my own spear. "I think her name is Rue," I say under my breath. My spear hits the dummy in the thigh. Not enough to kill a person, but hopefully enough to slow them down while I escape.

"What can we do about it?" Katniss asks harshly.

"Nothing to do," I answer. "Just making conversation." But truthfully, I think I'd been harbouring some foolish hope that we might be able to help the girl out somehow. Rue trails us from station to station. Like Katniss, she's an excellent climber, is clever with plants, and has exceptionally good aim. She hits the smallest of targets with a slingshot every single time. I imagine her rocks hitting one of the Career tributes in the head. It would do nothing but aggravate them.

Haymitch and Effie join us at every breakfast and dinner back on the twelfth floor. They grill us about each moment of the day. What we did, who watched us, how the other tributes are performing. It's exhausting, but at least they are both enthusiastic about helping us. They are full of endless directions and suggestions for what we should and shouldn't do in training. I try to be patient, but Katniss allows her irritation to come through.

As we walk back to bed on the second night, I mumble to Katniss, "Someone ought to get Haymitch a drink."

Katniss lets out a sound that's somewhere between a snort and a laugh, but then stops herself. "Don't," she says. "Don't let's pretend when there is no one around."

"All right, Katniss," I say with a sigh, too tired to try to hide my disappointment at the state of our relationship any longer.

Towards the end of the third day of training, they start to call us out one by one for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. We are led out in district order, and since the boy tribute is called before the girl, Katniss will have the final session of the day. We all hang around in the dining room, unsure of where else to go. As the room slowly empties, Katniss and I ease up on our efforts to appear friendly. By the time my name is called, we are sitting in silence.

"Remember what Haymitch said about being sure to throw the weights," Katniss blurts out as I go to leave. It's the first time she's said anything to me in private since she slammed her door on the first day of training. It takes me by surprise.

"Thanks. I will," I say. I search my mind to find something meaningful to say in return. "You… shoot straight."

I walk into the gymnasium, still cursing myself for not coming up with something better to have said. But all thoughts of Katniss evaporate when I look around and take in the mood of the room. Boredom. By now the Gamemakers have sat through twenty-two other demonstrations and they've clearly had enough. Too much food and wine too, probably.

I stand before them and wait for an instruction to begin but when no one bothers to acknowledge me, I just head over to the weights station. I grab hold of a 20-kilogram ball. The shooting range is on the opposite side of the gymnasium though and my arms are already tired by the time I make my way over there. Summoning the remainder of my strength, I throw the ball at the target. It hits, right in the chest, and breaks the wooden dummy in half.

I smile, impressed with my first attempt. But when I turn to the Gamemakers, I find only a small handful watching. If that doesn't impress them, then nothing I can do will. I hadn't really prepared myself to do anything else and Haymitch had given me no other instructions, so I simply continue to throw weights around until they tell me I can go after about 15 minutes. It was all pretty uneventful, except for the moment when the sweat on my palms caused me to lose my grip and drop a ball. It missed my foot by a centimetre. At least I can take solace in the fact that I'm pretty sure no one was left watching by that point. They were all singing some kind of song about drinking in loud, obnoxious voices. It doesn't matter to them. It's only my life that's at stake.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Haymitch and Effie are eagerly waiting for me when the elevator doors slide open back on the twelfth floor. Seeing the look on my face though, Effie jumps straight in with an attempt at reassurance.

"Don't worry, nobody from District Twelve ever receives a good score."

"Uh… thanks." I say.

Tonight, aired live in front of the whole country, the Gamemakers will announce a score for each tribute based on their performance in general training and in their private session. The number is between one and twelve, with twelve being the best possible score. The numbers are not necessarily an indicator of how well someone will perform in the Games though. Often, the tributes with the highest scoring numbers are actually killed off first because they are seen as the biggest threat to the others. And there was a boy who won a few years back who scored just a three. Still, the numbers provide a starting point for betting, and sponsors almost always give preference to those with the highest scores. I don't expect I'll do much better than about a four.

Haymitch and Effie are full of questions about my performance, but I'm sick of the scrutiny and in no mood to be interrogated. I squeeze past them while mumbling some excuse about needing a shower.

Back in my room, I realise that I do actually want a shower and take a long time bathing under the warm water, soaking the tenderness out of my muscles and trying to wash away the last few days. I throw on a comfortable outfit and return to the dining room in time for dinner. Effie, Haymitch and our stylists are already there waiting, but there is no sign of Katniss. Apparently she had run straight to her room after the Gamemakers session too. When the soup is served and she still hasn't arrived, Effie goes to collect her.

A few minutes later, Katniss enters the room trailing behind Effie, her head down and her face red and puffy. She has been crying a long while. It takes me by surprise because Katniss has barely shown any sign of emotion since the reaping, not even when she farewelled her family for the last time. Either it's all just finally gotten to her, or something terrible has happened.

I catch her attention as she slides into the chair across from me, raising my eyebrows as if to ask, 'What happened?' But she just gives her head a slight shake and fixes her eyes downward at the meal before her. Surely it can't have been that bad. I mean, even if she did make mistakes, the Gamemakers were probably barely watching anyway. But Katniss has always expected a lot from herself. If she was a little off target with some of her shots, she'd consider it to have been a total failure. Still, something about her reaction has me worried.

We all allow Katniss a bit of space and avoid asking her the question that's on everyone's mind. But by the time the main meal is served, Haymitch decides he's waited long enough. "Okay, enough small talk, just how bad were you today?"

His question isn't really directed at me, but I jump in first with an attempt to encourage Katniss. "I don't know that it mattered. By the time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me. They were singing some kind of drinking song, I think. So I threw around some heavy objects until they told me I could go."

Haymitch gives an unimpressed look and turns his attention to Katniss.

"And you sweetheart?" Haymitch asks.

She refuses to look up as she speaks. "I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers."

The table is suddenly dead quiet, everyone freezing mid chew. "You what?" questions Effie, making no effort to hide the horror in her voice.

"I shot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them. In their direction. It's like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just… I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig's mouth!" Katniss bursts out.

"And what did they say?" Cinna asks slowly.

"Nothing. Or I don't know. I walked out after that," she says.

Effie's face contorts. "Without being dismissed?"

"I dismissed myself," Katniss says.

Haymitch leans back in his chair. "Well, that's that." Then he simply picks up a roll and smears it with butter.

Besides Effie, who looks absolutely mortified, I actually get the sense that everyone around the table is a little pleased. Partly due to the impressive accuracy of Katniss's shooting, but also because she had the tenacity to challenge the Gamemakers. To give them a fright and show them that they are not in complete control.

"Do you think they'll arrest me?" Katniss asks Haymitch nervously.

"Doubt it. Be a pain to replace you at this stage," he says.

"What about my family?" Katniss says. "Will they punish them?"

"Don't think so. Wouldn't make much sense. See they'd have to reveal what happened in the Training Centre for it to have any worthwhile effect on the population. People would need to know what you did. But they can't since it's secret, so it'd be a waste of effort," says Haymitch. "More likely they'll make your life hell in the arena."

"Well, they've already promised to do that to us anyway," I add.

"Very true," says Haymitch. I can see Katniss's face brightening a little. Haymitch picks up a pork chop with his fingers, which causes Effie to frown, and ducks it into his wine. He rips off a chunk of meat with his teeth and starts to chuckle. "What were their faces like?"

The edge of a grin forms at the corners of Katniss's mouth. "Shocked. Terrified. Uh, ridiculous, some of them. One man tripped backwards into a bowl of punch."

We all start laughing at the image, except Effie, although even she looks to be suppressing a smile. "Well, it serves them right. It's their job to pay attention to you. And just because you come from District Twelve, is no excuse to ignore you." Her eyes dart around the room, as if afraid that someone is listening. "I'm sorry, but that's what I think."

"I'll get a very bad score," says Katniss.

"Scores only matter if they're very good, no one pays much attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose. People use that strategy," Portia reassures her.

"I hope that's how people interpret the four I'll probably get," I say. "If that. Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of metres? One almost landed on my foot."

Katniss grins at me, and I know I have helped to cheer her up a little. It gives me a warm feeling.

After dinner, we all head to the sitting room to watch the scores announced on television. First they show a photo of the tribute, and then flash their score below it. The Careers all get in the eight-to-ten range. The large boy from District 11, who I learn is named Thresh, also manages to score a nine. Most of the other tributes average about a five. The biggest surprise is little Rue, who is somehow credited with a seven.

Then it's my turn. My face appears on the screen and I prepare myself for the worst. But they're flashing the number eight below my picture. I can't quite believe it. An eight! Where did that come from? I turn to Portia and grin at her. Surely her costume enhanced the judges' opinion of me.

There's little time to process it before Katniss's face lights up the screen. Effie Trinket is the first to react, letting out a squeal at the flashing number.

Eleven!

Everyone is congratulating her and slapping her on the back. Katniss just looks bewildered.

"There must be a mistake. How… How could that happen?" Katniss asks Haymitch.

"Guess they liked your temper," he says. "They've got a show to put on. They need some players with some heat."

"Katniss, the girl who was on fire," says Cinna, giving her a hug. "Oh wait until you see your interview dress."

"More flames?" she asks.

"Of a sort," Cinna says mischievously.

Katniss and I congratulate each other somewhat awkwardly, and she quickly escapes back to her room. I hang back a while to thank everyone for their work in getting me such a good score. They insist it was my performance in the Training Centre, but I know they are just being polite.

It's been a long day and I'm exhausted, so I head back to my room for an early night. But even with the comfort of a warm bed and the fatigue in my muscles, sleep does not come. My mind is wired, tracing over the events of the past few days. Despite her attempts to follow Haymitch's instructions not to stand out, Katniss excelled at pretty much everything she tried in the training room. And then she scored an 11. Combine this with her natural beauty and fighting spirit, she is easily going to draw the most sponsors of the lot. Katniss actually has a really good chance of winning.

And even though I don't add much, she'll have me to help protect her too, or maybe to help by killing off some of the other tributes, or… it dawns on me that I have no idea how I'll actually be able to help Katniss in the arena. What is the best plan, the best strategy, for keeping her alive? Do I stay by her side and work to fend off the other tributes? Do I team up with someone else and try to keep them off her trail? Or do I simply act alone and try to eliminate as many of the others as I can? I really have no idea. I'm completely unprepared for this. I realise that if I'm going to be of most use to her, I will need some sort of guidance. Haymitch. He's the only one who will know what to do. He's going to think I'm nuts. But I can't afford to care what he thinks of me. I have someone's life to fight for.

It's after midnight by the time I get to sleep but I get up early the next morning anyway in the hope to catch Haymitch before Katniss comes out for breakfast. I'm in luck, Haymitch is already in the dining room when I arrive, serving himself a plate of stew at the buffet. Effie is there too, sitting at the table with her mug of black coffee. I greet them good morning and hurry to fill my plate before joining them at the table.

"What's the schedule for today?" I ask, sliding into the chair across from Haymitch.

"It's an exciting day." You'll be working on getting everything ready for your televised interviews tomorrow evening," Effie says. "First, you and Katniss will meet with Haymitch to work through your interview strategies. Then you will both come to me for coaching in proper presentation." She continues on, telling me about the final preparations with Portia and my prep team when I'm distracted by Katniss as she strolls casually into the room.

Haymitch notices my eyes trained on her. "What?" he says accusingly.

I look down at my food and lower my voice so only my table mates can hear. "I um… I was hoping to have some time alone with you today, Haymitch."

He narrows his eyes at me. "What for?"

"I need to discuss my strategy in the Games with you. Privately," I say.

"But there's no time in the schedule for that," Effie protests. "Your time for training strategy has passed."

Haymitch considers it for a moment, leans forward in his chair, and lowers his voice. "I think we can arrange it. If we do your interview prep separately, we can talk a bit during your allotted time with me. Something tells me you aren't going to need a whole lot of help charming the crowd anyway." I'm not sure if he's being serious or if he's meaning to insult me. But I don't have time to question it because Katniss is plonking herself down beside me.

The mood at the table becomes awkward. I avoid making eye contact with Katniss and just pretend I'm focused on finishing off my plate of food.

Katniss seems oblivious for the first few minutes as she chows down her breakfast, but then eventually breaks the silence at the table. "So, what's going on? You're coaching us on interviews today, right?"

"That's right," says Haymitch.

"You don't have to wait until I'm done. I can listen and eat at the same time," she says.

"Well, there's been a change of plans about our current approach," Haymitch says.

"What's that?" Katniss asks.

Haymitch looks over at me and then shrugs. "Peeta has asked to be coached separately."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The words sound so harsh, echoing in my ears. I know Katniss never actually trusted me to begin with, but asking for time alone with our mentor has no doubt severed any kind of connection we had formed. The little part of me that clung to a hope that Katniss might warm to me is now completely crushed. But to my surprise, the expression on her face isn't angry or bitter. It's almost as if she's sad. Disappointed, maybe. And I realise that I've really hurt her. Maybe there was more there than I had assumed. I feel a weight like a lead ball in my stomach.

In typical Katniss style, she quickly conceals her feelings with apparent indifference. "Good," she says. "So what's the schedule?"

"You will each have four hours with Effie for presentation and four with me for content," says Haymitch. "You'll start with Effie, Katniss."

I'm guessing that Haymitch opted to take me first to satisfy his curiosity about my request to see him in private. I'm not wrong. Before he's even closed the door to the sitting room, he's already quizzing me. "What's this about then, Peeta? Worried about how you're going to survive the wrath of Katniss in the arena? Cause, honestly, I don't know how even I can protect you from that." He takes the chair opposite me.

"No. It's not that. It's just…" I trail off.

"Spit it out, boy, we don't have long," Haymitch says impatiently.

I draw in a deep breath, holding it in my lungs as I speak. "It's just, well… I don't want to win."

"You don't want to what?" Haymitch says. "Why the heck not?"

I swallow hard and fix my eyes on the floor. "If I win, it means Katniss will die."

"Yes," Haymitch says slowly. "That's the basic idea of the Games. I'm pretty sure that's not news to you."

"Yeah. Right." I fumble around, stalling. "I've decided that I would rather help Katniss survive than to try to win myself."

"I see. Haymitch says. "You know you're not totally without a chance of winning, don't you? Why would you just give up?"

"It's not about that. I mean, I think we both know what my chances of survival are, but that's not why I don't want to try," I say.

"Right," Haymitch says. He leans back in his chair and props his feet on the coffee table between us. "So you're in love with her then. I suspected as much."

"Really?" I say, suddenly panicking. If Haymitch has noticed, surely others have too. Maybe Katniss has known the whole time and but hasn't bothered to say anything. I mean, what would she say anyway? _'Oh, I know that you're in love with me but I don't like you so let's just focus on killing one another.'_ I wouldn't say anything if I were her either. "Is it that obvious?"

Haymitch picks up on the terror in my voice "Yes, but I wouldn't worry, I don't think Katniss has any idea. In fact, I'm pretty sure she thinks you hate her. For some reason, she's got it in her head that you're going to try to kill her or something." He lets out a low, snorting sort of a chuckle.

But I'm not in the mood for his sarcasm. "I need your help to figure out how to keep her alive in the arena," I say.

"Well, I think you're a complete idiot," he says, focusing his eyes squarely on mine. "Even if she survives, she's not going to appreciate what you've done for her. And you won't be around to enjoy it either."

"Yes, I know. But I don't care. I couldn't bear to live knowing that my survival was paid for by her life," I say.

Haymitch lets out a long sigh and then just sits in silence for a full minute or two. When he speaks again, his voice is deadly serious. "So you're sure this girl is worth dying for?"

"Yes. I'm sure." I say.

"Okay then," he breathes. "You got anything in mind for how you want to play it?"

"Not really. I mean, I thought maybe Katniss and I could form an alliance in the arena," I suggest.

"Not sure that'll work. I don't know if you've noticed, but Katniss isn't exactly the trusting type," Haymitch says.

He's right. Even before the Games she always preferred to be alone. Except when it came to Gale. "Yes, but maybe if I tell her how I feel and explain that I want her to win and not me, she'll let me help her," I say.

"Perhaps. But it'd take a lot to convince her. She'll think you're trying to play her to get an advantage," Haymitch says. "You will have to prove it to her somehow."

"How am I supposed to do that?" I say.

Haymitch looks around as if searching for an idea somewhere in the room. "In the arena. You will need to show her that you are risking your life to keep her alive. It's the only way she will believe you. Until then, I think trying to team up with her is just a quick way to get yourself killed," he says.

That's going to mean fighting off some of the others, possibly even the Careers. It's probably another quick way to get killed too. But Haymitch is right. For me to just tell her I love her will not be enough. I will need to show her.

"Don't form an alliance with anyone else, either. Your training score was good enough to make you a threat to the others, so they'll just use you for a short time and then kill you off," says Haymitch. "If you can, track Katniss at a distance and keep a low profile. Use your camouflage skills to your advantage and try to stay quiet. Only reveal yourself if it's absolutely necessary."

"Okay," I say.

"And don't do anything stupid like charge in to defend Katniss against a pack of Careers or something. She is smart and able to move with stealth. If she gets her hands on a bow and arrows and she's got a tree to climb, she'll stand a pretty good chance all on her own. Don't go jumping in before you need to," Haymitch instructs. "Got it?"

I nod obediently. But I feel unsettled. If Katniss is being attacked, I'm not sure I'll be able to hold myself back. Then again, I might be so afraid that I cower in the bushes instead. It's impossible to predict what I'll be like in the field. The Games change people. Time and time again, a kid will enter the arena refusing to kill anyone at all, and they end up transforming into the most ruthless murderers of the lot. And then there are those who boast about their brutality and indifference to death but are unable to make a kill when the time comes. I can't pretend to be immune to the influence of the Games. Fear and the instinct to survive are powerful drivers that will affect me like they affect everyone else. I'll need to work hard to stay focused on Katniss and everything she means to me if I'm going to stand any chance.

"All of this has given me a good idea for your interview strategy," Haymitch says, smirking. Something tells me I'm not going to like this. "The star-crossed lovers," he says triumphantly.

"The what?" I ask.

"The star-crossed lovers," he repeats. "You're going to declare your love for Katniss to the nation during your live interview."

My stomach turns. "You can't be serious. I mean, there's just no way I'm going to do that," I protest.

"I thought you said you wanted to help her," says Haymitch.

"Yes, but I don't see how making a complete fool of myself is going to do that," I say. "And in any case, I thought you said that Katniss would not believe me if I just say it."

"It's not about Katniss. It's about getting sponsors. The people here can't resist a good story, especially a love story. You sell it to them, and they'll buy it, simple as that," Haymitch explains.

"Katniss will think I'm an idiot," I say.

"Probably," admits Haymitch. "But you can't go worrying about that. This is your best strategy. It will give you both more sponsors, I guarantee it. In fact, if we play it right, Katniss is bound to get more sponsors than any other tribute."

I narrow my eyes at him, still unconvinced. After years of hiding my feelings from Katniss and of being too afraid to even talk to her, it's hard to imagine how I will find the courage to reveal my love for her live on national television. It seems almost as frightening as the Games themselves.

Haymitch picks up on my hesitation. "Look, I've been a mentor for a long time now, and although it might be true that I don't always treat the role as seriously as I ought to, I have learned a thing or two about what makes a victor. More often than not, the survivors are those with the greatest financial backing. It's not fair, but it's true." His voice has taken on an uncharacteristically sad, reflective tone. He's now looking at the floor, but it doesn't work to conceal his eyes from me, which are moist with tears. His intention is unmistakable. This is a confession. He is admitting that his own behaviour has inhibited sponsorship deals for tributes in the past. Possibly costing them their lives.

The sudden display of emotion and vulnerability of this otherwise hardened man takes me completely off guard. "Okay. If you think it's best, I'll do it," I say.

Haymitch clears his throat and straightens up again. "Good. I'll make sure it comes up in your interview questions. You just need to go with it and make it believable. Can you do that?"

"Yes," I say. It should be easy enough to convince the audience it's true. I just have to be honest, and from what I've seen, the people here will believe any old tripe you feed them.

Haymitch and I spend the next few hours working through and rehearsing how I will approach the rest of the interview. We have no way of knowing what will be asked, so Haymitch drills me with what feels like a hundred different questions. I'm exhausted by the time we break for lunch, but at least Haymitch seems pleased with my performance. I come out feeling pretty good about everything. Still not looking forward to the interview, but pleased that I now have at least some plan for the arena.

Katniss, on the other hand, shows up in the dining room looking like she's about to strangle Effie. She refuses to make eye-contact with anyone throughout the meal. I'm guessing the afternoon session is not going to be much fun.

I'd predicted right. Effie is in a bad mood. The first I've really seen beside her hostile interactions with Haymitch. She has me practise everything down to the tiniest detail, snapping at me every time I make the slightest mistake. I have to learn how to sit with correct posture, how to walk properly, where to place my hands, how to hold my head, where to look, and how and when to smile.

She then runs me through how to respond if something goes wrong – if I slip, if my clothes tear, if a button comes off. I can't see how any of this is really going to help win sponsors or enhance my chances of survival in any way, but there's not much point fighting it. Plus, Effie looks so weary and worn out that I'd rather not make things more difficult for her. I think we're both relieved when she dismisses me early.

Katniss does not join us for dinner that night. I'm guessing her afternoon session with Haymitch didn't go so well. I imagine the idea of trying to charm and impress the Capitol would be repulsive to her. She has integrity. Plus, a full day's worth of being told what to do and how to behave would probably be Katniss's idea of hell. Haymitch and I agreed that it would be best if Katniss was not made aware of our plans for the interview. Her reaction has to be natural and believable, whatever it is. Still, I'm a little relieved that I don't have to face her until tomorrow.

I'm awakened the next morning by my prep team knocking at the door. They give me a robe to dress in and lead me down to the remake centre for a day of scrubbing, filing, and plucking. Once they've stripped everything off me, they begin to put a new layer on. My face is washed out with a coat of make-up and my features are carefully drawn back on. Somehow they manage to keep it all looking fairly natural. My prep team chatter away to one another, gossiping about the other prep teams, stylists, and mentors.

It's exhausting to listen to, so I'm thankful when Portia finally arrives with my outfit. She helps me into it, making sure everything is sitting how it's supposed to, and then stands back the reveal my image in the full-length mirror. "What do you think?" she says.

I nearly don't recognise the person standing before me. No one in the room can take their eyes off me. A perfectly fitted black suit with accents of yellow, orange, and red that flicker with my every move gives the illusion I'm on fire. My face shimmers with gold dust, lighting up my blue eyes. The three ladies in my prep team gush and applaud Portia for her incredible work.

"How have you managed to make me look so good?" I ask Portia.

"Well, I had a pretty good baseline to work with," she says, giving me a wink. "You look absolutely dashing."

"Thank you," I say. Even I have to agree.

"How are you feeling about the interview tonight?" Portia asks.

"Nervous," I say.

"There is no need to be. They are going to love you, Peeta," says Portia.

But it's not the audience I'm worried about, it's Katniss. There's no way of knowing how she will react. Will she laugh, hurl insults at me, or worse, say nothing at all? I shake my head and try to push the thoughts out of my mind. The less I think about it the better. Before long, I'll be on stage and then there'll be no turning back. I just have to keep my head together until then.

We meet with the rest of the District 12 crew at the elevator. I'm utterly flawed when I see Katniss appear from behind the Cinna. It looks as though her skin is actually glowing from within. She is as radiant as the sun. The make-up highlights her natural beauty, showing off her deep grey eyes and full lips. Her gown is covered in what looks to be precious gems. Red, yellow, and white jewels that reflect the light in such a way to make it appear as though she is engulfed in flames. I want to say something to her but lose my nerve, my stomach already swirling with butterflies for what's next. Fortunately, there's no awkward silence; Effie and the prep teams are spilling over with compliments for Katniss and I. Haymitch gives me a pat on the back but avoids Katniss altogether.

We reach the bottom of the training centre and are escorted to the area just beneath the stage. The interviews will take place on a large platform in front of the training centre that faces out to the city. The other tributes are already lined up waiting and don't pay any attention to Katniss and I as we join the back of the queue.

The hum of the crowd grows louder as the opening music begins to play. Just when we are about to be paraded onto the stage, Haymitch comes up behind Katniss and I and growls, "Remember, you're still a happy pair. So act like it."

I think he's trying to do me a favour, to make a possible love story seem believable before I announce it. But right now, I wish he hadn't said anything. I avoid her gaze, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Katniss is irritated by Haymitch's instruction. My stomach churns once more.

Fortunately, there's no time to dwell on it. We are already being marched out to take our seats in front of the roaring crowd. The bright lights illuminate the evening sky, creating the illusion that it's the middle of the day. It's a relief to find that the effect works to conceal much of the crowd from my vision. An elevated seating area has been set up for the stylists and the more prestigious guests to the left, while the Gamemakers are seated on a large balcony on the right. Camera crews fill the spaces in most of the other elevated positions. They will be recording a live broadcast that will be plastered across every television in Panem. The interviews are compulsory viewing.

My heart is racing so fast in my chest that I can't tell where one beat stops and the next one begins. My palms are slick with sweat but I remember Effie's instruction not to wipe them on my jacket under any circumstances, and refrain from doing so. I concentrate on following the others to get to my seat. All twenty-four of us are positioned in a neat arc of chairs across the stage, facing out to the city.

Caesar Flickerman, the man who has hosted the interviews for over forty years, leaps onto the stage in front of us with boundless energy. He must be in his late sixties by now, but his appearance has remained completely unchanged in all the time I can remember. Same, unwrinkled face covered with a thick layer of white makeup. Same hairstyle that he dyes a different colour every year. Same midnight blue suit that's dotted with a thousand tiny electric bulbs that twinkle like stars.

This year, Caesar's hair is powder blue and his eyelids and lips are coated in a matching hue. He tells a few jokes to warm up the crowd. I don't fully understand them but he has the audience in stitches. Then he takes a seat and gets straight into it, calling the first tribute up to the interview chair. Each interview will go for exactly three minutes. A buzzer goes off when the time is up and the next tribute is called. As usual, the tributes are presented in district order, starting with the girls first. This makes me very last. The audience will be bored by then, just like the Gamemakers were in training. Hopefully my announcement will be enough to get their attention again.

The girl from District 1 has been dressed up to look provocative in a see-through gold gown. She has flowing blonde hair and somehow they made her green eyes look twice their regular size. She flirts with the audience, winking and blowing kisses at them, but doesn't shy away from showing her ferocity either.

Caesar's talent as a host is a phenomenon, especially now that I see it up close. He exudes charisma and his positivity is infectious. No matter how dull or shy a tribute is, he manages to draw something good out of them. He laughs at lame jokes, plays up the sympathy, and somehow reacts in such a way as to make every moment memorable and entertaining. He is even friendly and comforting towards the tributes. It seems so sincere that I have to keep reminding myself that the intention behind his kindness is about creating a good show, and not about caring for the wellbeing of those on the stand.

Each tribute is playing some kind of angle. The girl from District 1 is an illustrious vixen. The boy from District 2, a ruthless, arrogant killing machine. The boy from 5, clever and witty. Some even use humour and flattery to win the audience over.

Though many of them are impressive, none stand out quite like Rue. She is dressed in a beautiful white gown made of a silky fine material that looks as though it's been spun by a thousand tiny spiders. With a set of delicate wings built into the back, she has been fashioned to look like an angelic bird. Silence falls over the crowd as she floats gracefully over to sit beside the host. Rue answers Caesar's questions intelligently in soft, whispering tones. When he asks her what her strength in the arena will be, she turns to address the audience directly, "I'm very hard to catch. And if they can't catch me, they can't kill me. So don't count me out."

"I wouldn't in a million years," Caesar says encouragingly. The crowd erupts in applause and her buzzer goes off.

Thresh, the boy from District 11 is next. He has the same dark skin as Rue, but otherwise couldn't be more dissimilar. He's sturdily built and at least six and a half feet tall. The Career tributes pestered him to join their pack but he refused all their invitations. During his interview, he doesn't engage with any of Caesar's attempts at banter. Instead, he answers each question with a simple yes or no and otherwise remains silent, as if protesting the whole procedure.

And then they're calling for Katniss to present on stage. She walks a little too quickly over to Caesar, and then briefly shakes his outstretched hand before sitting down. It takes a few awkward moments for her to register Caesar's first question, which is about what she has been impressed by in the Capitol. She answers in a shaky voice. "The lamb stew."

Caesar laughs and the audience joins in.

"The one with the dried plums?" Caesar asks. Katniss nods. "Oh, I eat it by the bucketful," he says. He turns to the audience with his hand on his stomach. "It doesn't show does it?" The audience shouts reassurances to him and applaud. In the Capitol, looking thin is a desirable trait that people work hard to attain. They go on diets and spend inordinate amounts of money on surgeries and injections, all in the name of looking starved. It's free to appear like that in District 12. Back home, a little extra weight is a rarity that symbolises nothing but good fortune and health.

"Now, Katniss, when you came out in the opening ceremonies, my heart actually stopped," says Caesar, placing his hand dramatically over his chest. "What did you think of that costume?"

Katniss looks over at the stand where Cinna and the other stylists are seated. "You mean, after I got over my fear of being burned alive?" she asks.

Laughter from the audience.

"Yes. Start then," says Caesar.

"I thought Cinna was brilliant and it was the most gorgeous costume I'd ever seen and I couldn't believe I was wearing it," Katniss says. "I can't believe I'm wearing this, either." She spreads her skirt out to show the audience and then gets up to spin in a circle. "I mean, look at it!"

The crowd reacts with loud oohs and ahs.

"Oh, do that again," Caesar says. So she lifts her arms above her head and spins around and around, allowing the dress to flare out and the flames to engulf her. The audience cheers with delight. When she stops, she clutches Caesar's arm for balance.

"Don't stop!" he says.

"I have to, I'm dizzy!" she says, giggling. A sound that may never have escaped her lips in her entire life.

Caesar wraps an arm around her shoulders. "Don't worry, I've got you. Can't have you following in your mentor's footsteps.

The audience laughs and hoots as the cameras focus in on Haymitch, who received fame for his drunken antics at the reaping. He waves the camera away and points back to Katniss.

"It's all right," Caesar reassures the crowd. "She is safe with me. So, how about that training score. E-le-ven. Give us a hint of what happened in there."

Katniss looks over to the Gamemakers on the balcony. "Um… all I can say is, I think it was a first."

The cameras cut to the Gamemakers who are all nodding and chuckling to one another.

"You're killing us," says Caesar in a pained voice. "Details. Details."

Katniss calls out to the balcony. "I'm not supposed to talk about it, right?"

"She's not," one of the Gamemakers shouts back.

"Thank you," Katniss says. "Sorry. My lips are sealed."

"Let's go back then, to the moment they call your sister's name at the reaping," says Caesar. His voice has taken on a more sober tone. "And you volunteered. Can you tell us about her?"

Katniss hesitates for a few moments before answering. "Her name's Prim. She's just twelve. And I love her more than anything." A hush comes over the City Circle.

"What did she say to you? After the reaping?" Caesar asks.

"She asked me to try really hard to win," she says.

"And what did you say?" Caesar prompts gently.

Katniss stares into the empty space in front of her. When she speaks, her voice is low and deathly flat. "I swore I would." The audience is still, hanging on every word.

"I bet you did," says Caesar warmly. The buzzer goes off. Caesar says one last thing to her but it doesn't register in my own mind. The nerves have taken over. My stomach pulls itself into a fluttering knot and I can feel my heart rate rise once more. My name is called and I try to give the appearance of calm as I make my way over to join Caesar.

He shakes my sweaty hand and invites me to take a seat opposite him. "Peeta, you're from District Twelve, but your family isn't in the coal business, are they? Tell us a bit about what you do back home," Caesar says.

The question doesn't invite much of an interesting response, so I decide to encourage the audience to participate by allowing them to guess the answer while I offer clues. I tell them that I get up in the morning before some of the Capitol people have even gone to bed. That, at the end of the day, I'm covered in white dust, rather than black. That some people like to admire my work, while others want to eat it.

It was my intention to have them guess it right away, but the people here are obviously unfamiliar with the life of a baker. Fortunately, the crowd openly enjoy the guessing game and there are roars of laughter as people call out their responses. Caesar joins in the banter, making a few suggestions of his own. When someone finally gets it right, I jump up out of my chair and applaud them. Everyone claps and cheers along with me. The audience is thrilled to be included.

Caesar has to work hard to settle the viewers down again before he can ask another question. "What do you think of your competition going into the Games?" he says finally.

"Oh, they're great. I think there are a lot of incredible people here. But there's so many of them! I've had to create a system for remembering each one," I say, inviting further enquiry.

"Oh? And do you think you could share it with us?" Caesar presses.

"Well… it's a little silly," I tease, pretending I'm hesitant about answering.

"Come on. You wouldn't leave us all wondering, would you? That would be too cruel," Caesar says.

"I suppose I'd better tell you then. I don't want to be cruel when you've all been so wonderful tonight," I say, grinning out at the people beyond the bright lights.

I go on to explain a mostly true technique I've used to recall each tribute by making a connection between them and the bread of their district. Glimmer, the girl from District 1 is beautiful like the star-shaped roll from her home. The boy from 2 matches the large, tough rye bread from his district. The seeds in the roll of the agriculture district resemble tiny little Rue, while the crescent shape reminds me of her counterpart, who is solid and sturdy like the moon.

To my surprise, the crowd laugh and cheer as the screen flashes a live image of each tribute's face to confirm the resemblance. Caesar joins in too, making some of his own connections between the tributes and baked goods.

"I must say, you're a very clever young fellow for inventing all that," Caesar says.

"It's just what I have to do to remember," I say with a shrug. "And I think about everything in terms of bread anyway."

"Well I wish I was half as smart as you," says Caesar generously. "Now tell me, Peeta, the Capitol must be very different to where you are from. What would you say is the most unusual thing you've come across in your time here?"

My mind immediately jumps to the people. With their silly accents, bizarre clothing, and freakish body alterations. They're certainly the most unusual features of the Capitol. But somehow I don't think that comments of this nature would go down too well with the audience. "Uh… that's a tough one," I say. "I think I would have to say the showers."

"The showers?" Caesar queries.

"Yes," I say. "I had a bit of an incident the other morning."

"Do tell," Caesar encourages.

"You see, back home, there are only two dials in the shower, one for hot and one for cold." I don't bother informing them that most people in District 12 don't even have a shower. "So the panel of options you have here has taken a bit of getting used to." Murmurs of agreement amongst the crowd. "It was the first day of training. I wanted to make an impression of being tough and manly. So at the end of the shower, I thought a blast of cold water might help me get in the right mindset. I turned to the panel and spotted a bright blue button in the top right corner." The audience starts to laugh. "And sure enough, I got a huge blast of masculine smelling… does anyone know?" I look out to the audience.

"Roses!" A chorus shouts back at me before the crowd breaks into a round of laughter. Caesar is laughing too and slapping his knees.

When the noise dies down a little, I turn back to Caesar. "Tell me. Do I still smell like roses?" Caesar leans in to have a sniff. More giggles from the onlookers.

"Perhaps a little. But I think it's lovely," he says. "How about me? Can you smell what buttons I've been pushing?" Then Caesar and I take turns sniffing each other while the audience loses it with laughter once more.

Finally, Caesar brings everything back to a calm again. "We are almost out of time but I have one more question for you," he says to me in a much more serious tone. I can feel my heart thudding loudly in my chest. If Haymitch has done his job, this is the moment I've been dreading. "Do you have a girlfriend back in District Twelve?"

I pause. Maybe I'm not going to have to say it after all. Katniss is certainly not my girlfriend, so I can answer this question honestly without revealing my feelings for her. I shake my head.

"Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?" asks Caesar.

I find Haymitch in the audience. His eyes narrow at me and he makes the slightest of gestures with his hand, urging me to go on. I let out a sigh. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping."

Sounds of sympathy ripple softly through the crowd.

"She have another fellow?" asks Caesar.

"I don't know," I say, thinking of Gale. "But a lot of boys like her."

"So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?" says Caesar encouragingly.

"I don't think it's going to work out. Winning… won't help in my case," I say.

"Why ever not?" says a perplexed Caesar.

My body feels hot all over and I can sense a rush of blood to my face, no doubt turning it an obvious shade of red. "Because… because… she came here with me."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

I don't dare look up at the television screens. They will be featuring a close-up reaction shot of Katniss's face. Whether it's shock, disgust, or just plain rage, I can't bear to see it. It's out there now and there's nothing I can do about it except hope that she doesn't kill me before we make it to the arena.

"Oh, that is a piece of bad luck," Caesar says with a tone of what seems to be genuine sympathy. The crowd murmurs in agreement.

"It's not good," I say.

"Well, I don't think any of us can blame you. It'd be hard not to fall in love with that young lady," says Caesar. "She didn't know?"

I shake my head. "Not until now."

"Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?" Caesar asks the audience. The crowd screams enthusiastically. "Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen's time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours."

The roar of the crowd is deafening. People are on their feet stomping and shouting out indiscriminately. A wave of relief washes over me. Haymitch was right. There's no mistaking the popularity of my declaration of love with the Capitol people. Surely the extra sponsors we receive as a result will be worth it in the end.

When the audience finally quietens down, I manage to squeeze out a polite "Thank you" before returning to my seat beside Katniss. I avoid making eye contact with her, and I'm pretty sure she's doing the same with me. We follow the protocol to stand and raise our heads for the anthem. It's impossible to avoid the television screens, now plastered with images of Katniss and I, standing side-by-side, looking horribly awkward and uncomfortable. The tragedy of the star-crossed lovers has captured the hearts of the Capitol people.

The anthem finishes and the tributes are filed back into the Training Centre lobby. Katniss darts off to find an elevator farthest from me. The stylists, mentors, and chaperones have been held back by the crowds so the other elevators are filling up with my competitors. I step towards the open doors but the boy from District 1 holds up a hand to stop me.

"I don't think so, Lover Boy," he says. His friends snicker.

"Yeah, why don't you and fire girl get your own elevator?" his counterpart chimes in. "Oh, that's right, because she doesn't even like you!"

The doors begin to close, and even though I don't make any attempt to get inside, the boy from District 1 wraps his oversized hand around my face and shoves me backwards. I get a quick glimpse of them all laughing and pointing down at me as the elevator shoots upwards. I should have known. An action that attracts sponsors is not going to go down well with the other tributes. Especially the Careers. Any sponsor we get is one they might miss out on. My interview has made me an even greater target.

I take the next elevator and journey up to the twelfth floor alone. I've only just stepped out when Katniss slams her palms into my chest, causing me to lose my balance. I stumble backwards and knock over a large vase filled with fake flowers, causing it to shatter on the tiled floor. There's a sharp pang in my hands as the shards tear through the skin.

"What was that for?" I say, shocked.

"You had no right! No right to go saying those things about me!" she shouts angrily.

I hear the elevator doors slide open behind me, and then Effie, Haymitch, Portia, and Cinna step into view

"What's going on?" asks Effie in a shrill voice. "Did you fall?"

I can't help feeling angry. No matter how Katniss interpreted my interview, this is surely an overreaction. "After she shoved me," I say in defence as Effie and Cinna help me to my feet.

Haymitch turns to Katniss with a look of fury in his eyes. "Shoved him?"

"This was your idea, wasn't it? Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?" Katniss accuses Haymitch.

"It was my idea," I interject. "Haymitch just helped me with it."

"Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!" Katniss shouts back at me.

"You _are_ a fool," Haymitch says in disgust. "Do you think he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own."

"He made me look weak!" Katniss argues.

"He made you look desirable! And let's face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You're all they're talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!" says Haymitch.

"But we're not star-crossed lovers!" protests Katniss.

Haymitch grabs Katniss by the shoulders and pins her to the wall. "Who cares? It's all a big show. It's all how you're perceived. The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you're a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?"

Katniss's enraged expression softens ever so slightly as she considers Haymitch's words. She shoves his hands off her shoulders and steps away.

Cinna walks over and puts a gentle arm around her. "He's right, Katniss."

"I should have been told, so I didn't look so stupid," Katniss says.

"No, your reaction was perfect. If you'd known, it wouldn't have read as real," says Portia.

"She's just worried about her boyfriend," I say, pulling a shard of the urn from my hand. It didn't occur to me until seeing her furious reaction that she'd be concerned about Gale.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she defends.

"Whatever," I say harshly. "But I bet he's smart enough to know a bluff when he sees it. Besides _you_ didn't say _you_ loved _me_. So what does it matter?" I try to conceal the truth of my pain behind these words, but it's coming out as hostility. Her face relaxes a little, confirming my suspicion that she was in fact worried about Gale. I hadn't admitted it to myself, but a small part of me had still been hopeful that my declaration of love would be met with some kind of reciprocation. Not of equal measure of course, but some small admission that she might feel at least something for me. Even something in the vein of sympathy would have been preferable to this obvious display of disdain. And boyfriend or not, there is no denying that she is more concerned with how Gale feels in this moment than with me.

"After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him, too?" Katniss asks.

"I did," says Portia. "The way you avoided looking at the cameras, the blush."

The others all nod in agreement.

"You're golden, sweetheart. You're going to have sponsors lined up around the block," says Haymitch.

Katniss turns to me. "I'm sorry I shoved you."

"Doesn't matter. Although it's technically illegal." I say.

"Are your hands okay?" Katniss asks sheepishly.

"They'll be all right," I reassure her.

Then there is an awkward silence for a while. No one knows what else to say. But the smells of dinner wafting into the room prompt us to move on.

"Come on, let's eat," says Haymitch. We make our way to the dining room and take up our places at the table. But it's clear right away that my hands are still bleeding too much.

"How about we call the medical department and get you patched up?" Portia suggests.

I follow her down the hall as she makes a call to explain my injuries and ask for a nurse. Portia invites me to sit on the plush couch in the sitting room and then takes the opposite seat. She stares back at me, narrowing her eyes.

"What?" I say.

"I'm just trying to figure it out," she says. "If it's really true. I mean, I know you could be in love with Katniss, but I also know how clever you are. It's an ingenious way to get sponsors. Never been done before."

I stare down at my bloodied hands and let out a deep sigh. "Unfortunately, it isn't just part of some clever plot. Although Haymitch helped me use it to our advantage."

"So it is true then!" she exclaims. "Oh Peeta, you poor dear! What an awful situation to be in. I mean, if it wasn't dreadful enough already."

"Yeah, pretty unlucky, huh?" I say.

"Unlucky? It's downright tragic. I can barely stand it myself. I can't imagine how you must be feeling," she says.

"I can't afford to think about it much. I just have to get on with things," I say.

There's a knock on the door and Portia beckons in a young nurse dressed all in white. She says almost nothing as she plucks out the remaining shards from my hands and bandages them up again in white cotton. The first time she makes any eye contact with me is when she stands up to leave. Her voice is low and quiet, as if she's trying not to be heard. "Now Peeta, these are special bandages. By the time you take them off in the morning, your wounds will be almost completely healed."

"Thank you," I say. This woman has gone out of her way to do me a favour. Expensive bandages like these are normally reserved for victors and Capitol citizens, not mere tributes. Perhaps it's just her kindness, or perhaps my performance during the interview is already starting to pay off.

The main course is just being served when Portia and I re-join the others for dinner. The conversation over the meal is dominated by talk of the interviews. Effie and Haymitch are largely critical of the approaches taken by the other tributes, but are full of praise for my interview. Not just the bit about Katniss, but the guessing game, the bread, everything. I'm sure they are just trying to make me feel better in light of my injuries. Katniss and I remain relatively quiet. My main goal is to concentrate on my dinner. It could be the last one I get. And it will certainly be the last one of this calibre. If I eat anything at all in the arena, it will probably be rations of bread or dried fruit. So right now, I'm careful to enjoy and savour every last bite.

After the meal, we watch the replay of the interviews in the sitting room. It's good to watch Katniss's interview once more. I was so filled with nerves the first time around that I couldn't really take it in. She looks incredible under the stage lights, and she somehow managed to pull out this sweet, girly demeanour that easily wins the crowd over. Everyone assures me that I'm charming and popular with the crowd. But I don't really see it until my confession. At this point, the response of the crowd is undeniable. I see Katniss react, blushing and confused, her jaw hanging open slightly as she processes the information. You could certainly interpret her face is that of a girl who might also be in love. But I know better. It's the shock and bewilderment of someone who has just received some horrifying news.

When the show concludes and the screen goes dark, the room falls into silence. It is the moment for the first round of goodbyes. Tomorrow at dawn, Katniss and I will be woken and prepared for our journey to the arena. Portia and Cinna will travel with us all the way to the launching ground. But Effie and Haymitch will remain behind and this will be our last contact with them.

Effie takes us both by the hand and wishes us well. She's fighting back tears, revealing that she still doesn't have a whole lot of hope for our survival. She thanks us for being the best tributes she's ever had, and concludes with what she somehow interprets as a compliment. "I wouldn't be at all surprised if they finally promoted me to a decent district next year!" I muster up an encouraging smile, then she kisses us each on the cheek and hurries out.

Haymitch crosses his arms and looks us both over.

"Any final words of advice?" I ask.

"When the gong sounds, get the hell out there. You're neither of you up to the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and then find a source of water," he says. "Got it?"

"And after that?" Katniss asks.

"Stay alive," he says. It's the same advice he gave us back on the train, only this time he is not drunk and isn't laughing. We give a solemn nod, and Haymitch walks off without another word.

This might also be the time where Katniss and I would exchange some kind of goodbye. But what could I possibly say to her? There's no point in trying to explain that my feelings for her are more than a ruse to gain popularity with sponsors. That I actually intend on working to keep her alive in the arena. So I avoid her altogether by hanging back and pretending I've got something to say to Portia. By the time I turn around again, Katniss has already disappeared back to her room. Apparently she didn't know what to say to me, either. I mean, what could she have said anyway?' Goodbye, I hope you die so I don't have to kill you?' It's ridiculous.

When I get back to my room, I run the shower to wash away all the makeup and sweat. I stand there for a long while with my bandaged hands outstretched, letting the warm water wash over my back and through my hair. It's nice. The water has a soothing effect. Not just on my body but on my mind too. When I finally step out, my skin is squeaky and wrinkled. I get dressed in some plain pyjamas and climb into bed.

It doesn't take long to realise that I'm not going to fall asleep. At first I think of my family. My dad, my mum, and my brothers. I would give anything to be allowed one more day with them. Waking up early to make bread with dad, eating soup and stale bread around the dining table with everyone, and falling asleep to the sound of my brothers snoring. The things that had once been a source of resentment and irritation have now become treasured memories that provide comfort and warmth. It's funny how death changes everything. I wish I could have appreciated those things when I still had the opportunity.

I wonder what they've been thinking as the events unfolded on their television screen. Were they encouraged by my training score? Did it give them any hope? Or did they just see Katniss's score and wonder if she'll be the one to win like my mother predicted. What did they think of my interview? I can imagine my dad being proud. The light-hearted joking and making silly connections to bread are stuff he and I would do. And the love declaration is something he'd have wanted me to do, too. Something that he wished he could have done with Katniss's mother. My brothers, of course, would have been teasing and poking fun at me. Or maybe not. Maybe the house remains sombre, the grief of my absence still palpable.

My mind pulls me back from my family and into the reality of what I will face in my immediate future. There is no way of knowing what environment I will come up against in the arena tomorrow. I'm not even sure it will make much difference to me whether it's jungle, desert, or a tropical rainforest. But Katniss will stand a much better chance if there are trees to climb and animals to hunt, especially if she can get her hands on a bow and arrows. But how will she get one? Haymitch has told us to avoid the initial fight when the Games begin. The winners of that battle usually walk away with most of the weapons and food supplies. Perhaps once the opening bloodbath is over, I'll be able to sneak back in and steal the bow and arrows. But even that simple task seems impossible. The Careers will most likely be in control of the weapons. And even if I manage to get hold of one, there's the problem of being able to locate Katniss who will no doubt have found a clever hiding place.

As all these thoughts start to swell in my mind, I can feel my heart rate quicken. Sleep slips further away as I begin to feel more agitated and stressed. Eventually it becomes too much to bear and I feel like I'm suffocating.

I struggle out of bed and grab a robe to throw on before making my way down the hall toward the roof. I take a deep breath as I step out into the cool night air.

The roof itself is not lit, but there's plenty of light coming up from the streets below. I walk over to the edge and peer down. It must be well past midnight by now, but the people of the Capitol are not asleep yet. They are up dancing in the street, singing and calling out to one another. It's all part of the excitement of the Games. Of the strange joy it is to watch the district children kill one another. It makes me so sick. Still, better to be out here in the open air than trapped in the prison-like enclosure of my room. I close my eyes and try to focus just on my breathing, letting the sounds from below wash away into the night.

A voice from behind gives me a start. "You should be getting some sleep." It's Katniss.

I give my head a slight shake in response but don't turn. "I didn't want to miss the party," I say, looking down to the streets. "It's for us after all."

Katniss comes up beside me to gaze down. I feel the temperature of my body rise. "Are they in costumes?" she asks.

"Who could tell? With the crazy clothes they wear here," I say. "Couldn't sleep either?"

"Couldn't turn my mind off," she says.

"Thinking about your family?" I ask.

"No. All I can do is wonder about tomorrow. Which is pointless of course," she says. There's a long pause. She looks at my bandaged hands. "I really am sorry about your hands."

"It doesn't matter, Katniss," I say. "I've never been a contender in these Games anyway."

"That's no way to be thinking," she says.

"Why not? It's true," I say. "My best hope is not to disgrace myself and…" I want to tell her about my plans to fight for her survival. About the truth behind my confession of love. This will probably be the only chance I have. It will be the last time we speak outside the watchful eyes of the cameras in the arena. Perhaps the last time we speak at all. But I can't say anything. Even in the dark, all alone, with nobody listening in, Katniss will not believe me. She will see it as a weak attempt to fool her into trusting me. And if that happened, there's no way she would let me get close enough to help her in the arena.

"And what?" she probes.

"I don't know how to say it exactly. Only… I want to die as myself. Does that make any sense?" I ask. She shakes her head slowly, trying to figure it out. "I don't want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not."

In the light coming up from the streets below, I can just make out her face. She is biting her lip. "Do you mean you won't kill anyone?" she asks.

"No, when the time comes I'm sure I'll kill just like everybody else. I can't go down without a fight. Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to…" Keep you alive, I wish I could say. No matter what happens in the Games I still want to be the boy who fought to save the girl that he loves. "To show the Capitol they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games."

"But you're not," Katniss says blatantly." None of us are. That's how the Games work."

"Okay, but within that framework, there's still you, there's still me," I insist. "Don't you see?"

"A little. Only… no offence, but who cares, Peeta?" she says.

"I do. I mean what else am I allowed to care about at this point?" I say, feeling a burst of anger. It is so much easier for her. She actually has a shot at coming out alive.

Katniss takes a step back. "Care about what Haymitch said. About staying alive," she says.

"Okay. Thanks for the tip, sweetheart," I say mockingly.

My use of Haymitch's patronising endearment triggers her own flare of anger. "Look, if you want to spend the last hours of your life planning some noble death in the arena, that's your choice. I want to spend mine in District Twelve," she hits back.

"Wouldn't surprise me if you do," I say in an almost childish voice. And as if I've made it my mission to end things with Katniss on bad terms, I add, "Give my mother my best when you make it back, will you?"

"Count on it," she says. Then she turns and storms off, leaving me alone on the roof once more.

The anger fades quickly. It is replaced by a sinking feeling of regret and shame. In my last moments alone with Katniss, I lashed out and gave her one more reason to dislike me. She'll probably set out to kill me off as soon as the Games begin now. So much for trying to help her survive.

I spend the next few hours in the cool night air, going over the conversation in my head and coming up with things that I wish I had said instead.

When the first signs of dawn begin to peak on the horizon, I hurry back down to my room. Portia is there waiting for me. She gives me a simple shift to wear and helps me remove the bandages from my hands. The nurse didn't lie. The only evidence of the previous night's ordeal is some faint red marks where the urn had pierced the skin.

Portia guides me to the roof where a hovercraft is waiting. A ladder drops down and I place my hands and feet on the lower rungs. In an instant, it's as if I've been frozen. Some sort of current glues me to the ladder as I'm lifted into the vehicle. Once inside, a plump woman in a white coat approaches me carrying a large syringe. "This is just your tracker, Peeta. The stiller you are, the more efficiently I can place it," she says.

Still? How much more still could I be? I'm frozen to the ladder. But that doesn't stop me from feeling the sharp pain in my arm as the metal tracker is inserted under my skin. This device will allow the Gamemakers to detect my location in the arena, in case I somehow evade the cameras I guess. If tributes are hiding somewhere, they have a way of getting us to come out and play.

The ladder releases me and the woman leaves the room. Portia is retrieved from the roof and an Avox girl directs us both to a room where breakfast has been laid out. The smell of the food makes me feel nauseous. My appetite seems to have been swallowed up by the nerves swarming in my stomach. Nonetheless, I make an effort to try and consume as much as I can, being sure to take regular sips of water along the way.

Portia sits quietly and only eats a few mouthfuls as we make our way out of the Capitol and into the wilderness. The views from above as we speed along are breathtaking. The landscapes of lush green trees, the rivers, and the blue sky create a sense of calm within me, allowing me to eat a few more mouthfuls of food.

After travelling along like this for about half an hour, the windows black out, suggesting that we are nearing the arena. When the hovercraft lands, Portia and I take a ladder that leads underground, into the catacombs that lie beneath the arena. We follow voice instructions that direct us to a chamber where the final preparations are made. In the Capitol, this space is known as the Launch Room. But in the districts, we call it the Stockyard. The place where animals go before they are sent out for slaughter.

Everything smells and looks brand-new. I will be the first and only tribute to ever use this Launch Room. Once the Games are over, the arena is preserved as an historic site. The people of the Capitol will come to visit it as a holiday destination. Tours are run where fans can come to see the places where all the action unfolded. They even offer re-enactments that you can take part in.

Portia has an outfit ready for me when I return from brushing my teeth. She has no say in what I will wear. She would not have even known what it looks like until just now. All the tributes are dressed in the same thing. This year, it's a simple pair of tawny pants, a light green shirt, a sturdy brown belt, a thin hooded black jacket that hangs low on my thighs, and a pair of sturdy leather boots with flexible soles.

"The material is designed to reflect body heat," Portia says, feeling the inside of my jacket.

"So it's going to be cold?" I ask.

"There will definitely be some cold moments, at least at night," she says. Then she lowers her voice to a whisper. "Peeta, don't go making fires to keep yourself warm. The cold will be uncomfortable, but nothing will draw the other tributes in like smoke from a fire. Okay?" I nod. "Now, move around, make sure everything feels okay."

I take a few steps around the room and reach my hands up into the air. "Yes, everything fits perfectly," I say.

"Right. Then there's nothing we can do except wait for the call. It should be any moment now. Try to get a little more water down while you're here," she says, handing me a full glass.

I take a few sips but my throat seems to be closing over. The nerves I felt earlier have morphed into an unfamiliar sense of terror. My stomach churns, my heart races, and my whole body breaks into a sweat as I think about what is to come. In a few short moments, I could be dead. My life suddenly over as if it never mattered for anything in the first place.

Portia reaches out to grab my hand, enclosing it within hers. We sit like this for a few minutes until a voice announces that it's time to prepare for launch.

Still holding my hand, Portia walks me over and positions me on a circular metal plate. "Peeta, it has been an honour to work with you," Portia says, locking her eyes with mine. "Remember to stay true to yourself out there, for you are already an extraordinary man."

I want to respond, to say thank you, to tell her about what I'd said to Katniss just a few hours earlier. But the words are stuck in my throat. And then a glass cylinder is lowered around me, cutting her off from me, along with the rest of the outside world.

As the plate beneath me begins to rise, Portia looks up and gives me a slight, reassuring smile. Then I'm plunged into darkness and I can feel the metal plate pushing me out of the cylinder into the open air. For a moment, I'm blinded by the bright sunlight. A strong wind carries the scent of the wilderness.

I can hear the iconic voice of the Games and announcer, Claudius Templesmith booming as if he's all around me. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

The countdown begins. Sixty seconds is how long we are required to stand on our platforms before we are released by the sound of the gong. Step off before the time is up, and you'll be blown to bits by the mines. The tributes are set out in a ring circled around the Cornucopia, a giant golden horn shaped like a cone with a curved tail reaching about six metres high.

My eyes dart around to find Katniss. She is there, about five tributes to my left. Her eyes are surveying supplies that lay around the Cornucopia. Spilling out from the horn itself, are the most precious items that would give a player a huge survival advantage. Food, water containers, weapons, medicine, fire-starters, and tent packs. On the ground is an array of other supplies, the value of which decreases the father they are from the horn. There are backpacks, torches, sheets of plastic, and small rations of food.

Haymitch's instructions were clear though. We are not to attempt to engage in the battle for supplies. The opening minutes of the Games always involves heavy slaughter as the tributes fight one another to gain possession of the most prized items. This is where the Career tributes often gain their biggest advantage. They sprint to the supplies first and then use the weapons to attack anyone seeking access to provisions. It's brutal, and Haymitch knows that our chances of surviving it are next to nothing.

Nonetheless, when I look back over at Katniss, her eyes seem fixed on a particular location towards the top of the Cornucopia. There's something up there that she wants. I follow her gaze carefully and see it immediately. There, resting on a pile of blankets, is a shiny silver sheath of arrows and a bow. Surely they Gamemakers put it there for Katniss. After her performance in her private session, they will want to see what she can do with a set of arrows in the arena.

I look back at Katniss to find her still focused on this one spot, her body weight shifting in preparation for a sprint. No. Please no. She could be dead before she reaches it. Even if she does get there alive, there will be a swarm of other tributes in close range. She might be able to take one or two out, but it wouldn't be long before they'd be on top of her, too close to shoot. And then it would be just her against the most powerful tributes in the arena, who by then would have their own weapons. It's absolute suicide.

As if she could somehow sense me pleading with her, Katniss breaks her gaze and looks over at me. I shake my head at her, desperately imploring her not to run right into a death trap. It's all I can do.

Time is up. The gong sounds and we are released from our platforms. But I don't run. I stand there, paralysed, waiting to see what Katniss will do. She immediately jumps of her plate, but then looks uncertain. Her feet shuffle around on the spot for a moment before she lunges forward to collect a sheet of plastic and a loaf of bread that lay a few metres in front of her. She tucks them under her arm and continues to sprint forward. At first I think she is going for it. For the bow and arrows at the Cornucopia. But then I see she is headed for an orange backpack that lies another twenty metres away. Before she even gets there, several of the other tributes have already made it to the horn and are grabbing hold of the weapons.

I need to move. Before long, the Careers will launch their assault, targeting anyone still in the vicinity. I take a moment to survey my surroundings. To my right, I can see nothing much at all beyond a flat patch of ground, indicating a sharp downward slope or perhaps even a cliff. Directly behind me is a large lake. Beyond that is a thick landscape of tall grasses. Then to my left is a forest of pines leading to what appears to be dense wilderness. This is where I need to get to. It looks to be the only place that will provide any real cover.

Katniss has reached the backpack now, but so has another boy, the one from District 9. Neither of them seems to see the girl from District 2 advancing on them with a deadly set of knives in her hands. I remember seeing her throw them in training. She never misses.

"Run, Katniss! Run!" I call out. She doesn't hear me. The assailant grabs hold of her blade and flings it at the pair who are now wrestling over the backpack. The knife lodges into the back of the boy and he goes down with a splutter. The girl is already taking aim at her next target, Katniss. Katniss sees the danger and begins to run, holding the backpack above her head for protection. The blade flies through the air and hits squarely in the centre of the backpack as Katniss flees toward the woods. She is closer to them now than me and I need to clear out before the girl from District 2 and the other Careers run out of targets.

By the time I reach the cover of the trees, Katniss has already disappeared. My hopes of being able to follow her rapidly evaporate. With her superior skill in hunting undetected through the forest back home, I have little chance of tracking her without a visual on her location. I pause for a few moments and look around, trying to work out which direction she might have gone in, forgetting the more immediate dangers behind me.

The first spear hits the edge of the tree immediately behind me. Chunks of bark split off and fall to the ground. Without turning to look, my body propels me forward into a sprint. I crash through the trees, jumping over logs and ducking to avoid low branches. I've never been a fast runner, and I can tell by the approaching thunder of steps behind me that my attacker is quicker than I.

There's a loud grunt of effort and I know another spear has just been released in my direction. I dive to the left, but not quite quickly enough. The steel tip slices the edge of my right arm, just above the elbow. My body crashes to the ground and I roll over in agony, instinctively clutching my arm to stop the flow of blood.

Get up, get up, get up! I urge myself. My only chance is to run. I have no weapon and who knows what else the kid behind me is carrying. I've only just scrambled to my feet when a solid force slams into me, knocking me back down. It's the boy from District 1, the one who pushed me at the elevator. He drops the weight of his body on my chest, pinning me down. The boy is bigger than me, but not as big as my brothers. I've been in this position a thousand times before and I know I can get out of it. The opportunity comes when the boy goes to reach for something from his belt, causing his balance to move off centre.

I thrust the core of my body upwards and twist to the left. The boy falls sideways and lands awkwardly, providing me with a brief window to get back on my feet. But I get only a couple of paces before the boy throws himself at me once more. He wraps his arms around my legs, causing me to topple back to the ground. He climbs onto my chest and pins my shoulders down with his knees.

"Gotta bit of fight in ya, Lover Boy," he taunts. "Not for long." He plunges his fist into my face. A swell of blood immediately forms in my mouth. Before I can spit it out, I'm struck with another blow. And another. And another. They just keep coming, one after the other, until I can barely even register each strike.

"There. That should slow you down a bit," he says, reaching again to his belt. I flick my head sharply to the side to prevent the flow of blood from running into my eyes. I immediately regret it when I see what the boy is now clasping in his hands. It's an axe. The shiny, unused blade twinkles in the sunlight as he holds it above my head.

"Too bad your girlfriend isn't here to save you," he says. "Any final words?"

This is it. This is the end. I haven't even made it through the first five minutes. So much for protecting Katniss. I suppose I was never going to be much use anyway. But I at least wanted to be able to go out showing the Capitol that they cannot force the district people to simply be creatures with a survival instinct. That we are capable of something more important, more powerful than the desire to preserve our own life. My love for Katniss proves it. And I want them to know it.

"Yes," I croak out. "You will not win."

"Oh yes? What makes you so sure?" he asks.

"Because there are no winners. The person who comes out alive is only a survivor. As long as the Games exist, the Capitol is the only winner," I say. I know that my words will never be aired around the districts. The Capitol censors this kind of rebellion. But at least it will reach the ears of the Gamemakers. "And in any case, Katniss will be the one to survive," I add with a bloody grin.

"Is that so Lover Boy?" he mocks. "Well, too bad you won't be around to find out." He lifts the axe up high above my head, and I close my eyes, waiting for the impact that will put an end to my life.

"Wait!" A loud voice calls from behind. It's coming from an older boy, about twenty metres off. "Wait!" he calls again, drawing closer.

"What for?" The boy above me yells back.

"We can use him," the other voice says, coming up beside me. I recognise him now. It's Cato, the gigantic boy from District 2.

"Are you serious?" says the boy from 1. "First you want to keep Three, and now you want to keep Lover Boy too? If I didn't know any better, I think you'd want to keep everyone alive."

"Don't be stupid, Marvel. Lover Boy is probably our best chance of finding the girl," Cato says.

"But he likes her. He is not going to help us find her," the boy called Marvel argues.

"You're not thinking it through. Only one can win. Lover Boy knows that if he is going to stay alive, she'll have to die some time. Isn't that right?" Cato says, looking down at me.

I give a feeble nod. "Yes, if I want to survive, she has to die."

Marvel considers this for a moment, and then lowers his axe. "Fine, but if he acts up at all, I'll kill him."

"Not if I kill him first," Cato says with a grin. "Come on, we've got to secure supplies and set up base camp before we can head out for the hunt." He turns back in the direction of the Cornucopia and strides off.

"It's your lucky day," Marvel says as he lifts his body off my chest and rises to his feet. "Right then, let's go." He lays a foot into my side as I haul myself upright, then he pushes me forward after Cato. Marvel walks closely behind me, spear pointed at my back, as we return to the Cornucopia. The raised weapon is completely unnecessary. My arm is bleeding heavily and the swelling that is beginning to form around my eyes is rapidly impairing my vision. If I tried to flee, Marvel or Cato would take me out in an instant.

The gruesome scene back at the launching ground is nothing short of horrific. The bloodbath at the opening of the Games is always horrifying, I've seen them many times before on television. But nothing could have prepared me for seeing death like this up close. Death of people I know. Death of people who just minutes ago, were standing only a few metres away, still breathing, the blood still pumping through their veins. At least half a dozen of them lie lifeless the on the ground. Their pale and bloodied bodies closely resemble their former living selves, but somehow look completely different now. Like there's something missing.

Standing by the mouth of the Cornucopia is the girl from District 1, Glimmer. A small ashen-skinned boy is sitting on the ground a few metres away from her. Glimmer holds an axe in one hand and appears to be guarding the boy. This must be the kid from 3 that Marvel mentioned. He has a slight build and he didn't seem to have any special skills in training. Still, the Careers must know something about him that I don't. They are not known to keep people alive for no reason.

Just as we arrive, the girl from District 2, Clove I think her name is, comes bursting through the woods. "Four! I got four!" she shouts. "Haha! This is even easier than I thought. Why do they always run in a straight line?" She is laughing as she almost skips her way over to us.

Before anyone has a chance to respond, a second voice follows her out of the trees. "They killed him!" The voice cries. "Those dirty rats from District Seven killed him!" The grimacing face comes into view, and I immediately recognise her as the girl from District 4. I never caught her name, but her appearance had struck me. Long, jet black hair and matching dark eyes. She always looked like she was ready to kill someone they moment they looked in her direction. Even when joking around with the other Careers in the lunchroom, she maintained a dark ferocity that made me uncomfortable.

"Killed who?" Glimmer calls back.

"Who do you think, idiot? Brutus!" The dark haired girl shouts angrily.

Brutus is the boy from District 4. Surely no one would have expected him to go out on the first day. He was a large kid that scored a nine in training. Many would have been betting on him to win.

The dark haired girl paces back and forth as she recounts the story of how Brutus was killed. Apparently, while he was beating the girl from 7 to death, the boy from her District came up from behind and hit Brutus on the head with a mace. The dark haired girl killed the pair before they could escape, but Brutus was dead by the time she got to him.

"What a waste!" The girl says in a huff as she finishes her story. "I mean, those rats were going to die anyway, why'd they have to take Brutus with them? And in any case…" She stops suddenly when she spots me standing there, holding onto my bleeding arm. "What's _he_ doing here?" she demands.

Cato repeats his justification for keeping me alive, but the dark-haired girl is not convinced. An argument breaks out among the group. Most of them seem to think that I should be killed right away, but it's Cato who appears to have the final say. "Look, he's staying, and that's that!" he shouts, and storms off. There are a few grumbles under the breath, but no one says anything further.

With Cato gone, it's Clove who takes charge. She is a girl of about 17, with dark brown hair that she wears pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her self-assurance is evident in the way she speaks confidently and carries herself. I expect she believes wholeheartedly that she will win the Games. She might be right, too.

Clove dishes out instructions to each of us for how we will spend the next few hours. The remaining Careers will set up camp, while I will assist the boy from 3 in stacking and constructing the protection of the supplies. Everyone accepts her orders without complaint, as if it was something they had arranged and agreed to before the Games began.

It's not uncommon for tributes to work together like this. In the early part of the Games, alliances are formed where kids work together to survive and hunt others down as a pack. Then, when the numbers begin to thin out, they escape or turn on one another without warning.

The Careers move a few hundred metres off to set up a camp by the lake. The boy from 3 gets straight to work, collecting supplies from around the Cornucopia. He stacks them up in a single pile and instructs me to do the same, politely correcting me when I put something in the wrong place. I watch him carefully, trying to figure out why the Careers would want to hold onto this boy. What could he possibly offer that the Careers don't already have? I try to ask him about it but he evades my questions carefully. In fact, the only real conversation that occurs between us is an exchange of names. His is Felix. But when I tell him mine, he simply says, "Yes, everyone knows who _you_ are."

I come across a large medical kit among the supplies and help myself to the disinfectants and bandages inside to clean and patch up my wounds. I do my best to wrap my arm up with my free hand. Felix does not offer to help when he sees me struggling with the bandage. The end result looks a bit rough, but the bleeding appears to stop after a little while.

It's late afternoon by the time Felix is satisfied with our work. Everything is set up in a large pyramid with a few items sprinkled carefully around the outside. It seems like an odd arrangement. Everything just in the one pile, positioned a strangely odd distance from the camp. The answer must lie with Felix and whatever special skill the Careers are keeping him alive for. But I just can't figure it out and it looks as though Felix isn't planning on telling me.

Clove returns and instructs me to grab some food from the supplies and join her and the others down by the lake for a meal. Felix is not invited though. Instead, Marvel comes back to help him construct some sort of protection for the supply pile. Clove and I grab a crate and fill it with rolls, dried fruits, dehydrated meats, and some empty water bottles. We also pack in some iodide. Any water can be purified for drinking after adding a few drops and waiting about 30 minutes. Tributes without access to iodide can die early from water-related illnesses. I hope Katniss found some of it in that backpack she ran off with.

When we arrive down at the lake, the cannons begin to fire. Each shot represents the death of a tribute. The Career's count loudly as each shot fires. Eleven dead.

"Four of them were mine," Clove boasts again proudly.

"I killed two," Cato says plainly.

"And Drusa killed those two from District Seven," Clove says, referring to the dark-haired girl. What about you, Glimmer?"

"I just got one," she says. "But Marvel didn't get any," she adds quickly, as if defending herself by declaring that she wasn't the worst performer of the pack.

"So, along with Brutus, that accounts for ten of them," Cato says. "I think we can add to that number before the day is through."

I can be sure that Katniss was not one of the nine killed by the Careers. Otherwise they would have no use for me. But there's still one unaccounted for. I tell myself that it can't have been Katniss. She made it into the woods safely and now she will be far away, hidden somewhere out of sight. She is too clever to be picked off so early, and if the Careers didn't kill her, it's unlikely anyone else would have. I keep telling myself these things over and over. But it's little comfort. I won't know for sure until tonight when they play the death recap. At the end of each day, the sky will be lit up with the faces of the victims in the arena that day. It will be a long few hours.

After the cannons cease, a hovercraft appears over the field of bodies that lay strewn around the Cornucopia. One by one, each body is lifted unceremoniously by a claw that is lowered down from the floating ship. The Careers carry on with their conversation while they tear into the food, seemingly oblivious. I have zero appetite, but force myself to eat a roll and a handful of dried fruit.

A rabbit appears out of the bushes about twenty metres from us and hops cautiously down to the edge of the water for a drink.

"Watch this," Clove whispers, rising to her knees. She draws a knife from her belt, grips the blade, and narrows her eyes at the unsuspecting target. The knife hits the animal in the side and it skids along the ground. Its body twitches for a few moments before coming to rest lifelessly in the dirt, a trail of blood running into the water. Clove trots over to collect her kill and drops it down next to the pile of food.

"Ewwww!" says Glimmer in disgust. "What did you do that for?"

"What, haven't you ever eaten rabbit before?" says Clove.

"No. Gross!" Glimmer grimaces as she turns her head away.

"Well it's probably the only kind of fresh meat you're going to get around here," says Clove.

"Yeah, don't be such a princess," adds Drusa.

"Whatever. You guys can eat some disease ridden wild animal, but I'm not touching it," says Glimmer.

"All the more for us, then," says Clove. She digs her knife into the belly of the rabbit. It's clear right away that she has no idea how to gut an animal.

Drusa notices as well. "Not like that! You're going to spill its guts," she says, snatching the animal from Clove's hands. But Drusa isn't a whole lot better. Chunks of meat and fat are coming off along with the hide. By the time she is through with it, there'll be none left to eat. I've skinned and gutted hundreds of animals. Mostly the squirrels that my dad buys off Katniss, but I've done a few rabbits too. It's not hard once you get the hang of it. Drusa clearly hasn't had much practice, and her increasing frustration seems to be making things even worse.

"Um, Drusa?" I venture cautiously.

"What, Lover Boy?" she says, irritated.

"Would it be okay if I had a go?" I say.

Her fierce eyes narrow at me. I can sense I'm balancing on a fine line between useful and offensive. "Fine!" she mutters, then throws the carcass at me.

The others watch on silently as I remove the rest of the skin and separate the guts and organs. I'm done in just a few minutes.

"Looks like Lover Boy actually has some skills," Cato says, sounding pleased with himself. They don't respond. Either they don't want to admit that Cato might have been right to keep me around, or they are annoyed that I was able to do something that they couldn't. Regardless, my gamble seems to have paid off because they begin to include me more in their conversations, as if they are opening up the door to their gang, just a little.

I remember back to what Haymitch told me about getting involved with other tributes. I haven't exactly formed an alliance, at least, not willingly. But I've ended up in a situation where the Careers can use and then discard me at any moment.

I try to build on my credibility by showing that I can make a fire and cook meat on a spit. They seem to appreciate having someone to do the work for them and possibly even impressed that I have the skills to do it. The kids from the Career districts generally won't have had cause to build fires and cook meat in this way. And in training, they all focused on combat rather than survival skills. They rely on being able to secure the supplies and draw sponsors rather than sourcing food for themselves. Maybe if I demonstrate my usefulness in this area, they will assume that I have something to offer in other ways too and decide to keep me around for a little longer. Long enough for me to figure out how to use my predicament to my, or rather to Katniss's, advantage.

Night has just fallen when the meat is ready. As we settle in to eat, the anthem that precedes the death recap begins to play. The seal of the Capitol appears to float in the sky on a large screen that is transported by a hovercraft. The anthem fades out and the sky goes dark for a moment. At home, my family, along with the rest of the district people, will be watching full coverage of every killing. But this information is thought to give an advantage to the remaining tributes. For instance, no one yet knows that Katniss is able to use a bow and arrows, but if she did get her hands on one, her secret would be revealed and everyone would know how to avoid an attack from her.

Here in the arena, all we see is a simple headshot along with the district number of each victim. I take a deep breath and count the faces as they go by. The tributes are presented in district order, so if Katniss is among the dead, she'll be the last face in the sky. My new 'allies' cheer and hoot as each face emerges. The first to appear is the girl from District 3, then Brutus from 4 and the boy from 5. Both tributes from 6, along with the two from 7 that Drusa killed. The boy from 8. Both from 9. That makes ten, only one more. I hold my breath and peer up at the sky. It's the girl from District 10. The Capitol seal returns with a final musical flourish, then darkness fills the sky once more. I let out a sigh of relief. Katniss has made it through the first day.

Seeing the faces of their victims prompts the Career pack to recount the stories of how they made their kills. Each person tries to outdo the last with accounts of their prowess, but it's Cato who scares me the most. His descriptions are less focused on his own actions and more on the responses of his victims. The way he talks about the fear in their eyes and the sounds of their screams reveals a disturbing enjoyment in their suffering. I hope that it is just part of the image he presents to emphasise his brutality to sponsors. But I can detect a genuine satisfaction in his voice that suggests otherwise.

Marvel and Felix come over to join us while the stories are still being told. Apparently the setup is all complete and the supplies are secure. Even though I seem to have earned a little bit of trust with the group, no one is willing to let me in on the secret to how they are protecting their loot.

With everyone fed and rested, Cato announces our plan for the evening. Felix will stay behind with the supplies while the rest of us go out on our first night hunt. The aim will be to move quickly and cover as much ground as possible. His theory is that people will not have had time to build shelters and camouflages yet, so the sooner they comb through the forest the better. Everyone can take whatever weapon they choose, as long as it doesn't weigh them down too much. Cato chooses a sword, Clove a set of knives, Drusa the mace, and Marvel takes two spears. Glimmer selects the bow and arrows, totally unaware that this particular weapon was put here for Katniss. If only there was a way for me to get it to her. The others wouldn't stand a chance. Perhaps I can figure out a strategy for that later. For now, the only way I can help is to try to keep the Careers off her trail.

Cato selects my weapon for me. A single knife. "You're not going to need anything else anyway, since your job is mostly going to be lookout," he says, handing me a pair of glasses.

"What are these?" I ask.

"Put them on and find out," Cato says. I do. And I'm so shocked by what I see that I nearly stumble backwards. Even though it's almost completely dark, everything appears lit up as if it were the middle of the day. I can make out details on the leaves of trees over ten metres away. "These will help you spot Katniss, plus anyone else who is trying to hide out there." He puts on his own pair. "Anything I should be looking out for?" he asks me.

"Uh… Katniss is good at camouflage and building shelters," I lie. "But she won't have had time to make anything good yet so she'll probably have tried to find a natural shelter between some rocks or something." Hopefully this will keep Cato from looking up in the trees, where I expect Katniss will be safely hiding. The others complain when Cato just gives them a torch each, but he simply ignores them and orders us to move out.

We start with a jog. Cato and Marvel take the lead, the three girls are in the middle, and I hang at the back. They are all quite fit, and I find it hard to keep up. But every now and then we break back into a walk and I have time to catch my breath again. We go like this for several hours before we first come across a sign of another tribute. It's a fire. At least smoke from a fire that's burning some distance away. It's easy to see it wafting into the sky with my glasses on. I think back to Portia's final words to me in the hovercraft before the launch and wish this tribute had been given the same advice.

Cato orders the pack to slow down to a walk as we move closer. When we are within range of smelling the smoke, he instructs the others to switch their torches off and calls me to the front to help lead them through the darkness.

We creep along for half an hour or so before we are near enough to see the flicker of flames through the trees. Lying down beside the fire is a small girl who I don't recognise. She is asleep. Completely unaware of the danger that is almost upon her. Although it was a silly move to build a fire, the night has been chillingly cold and this girl must have believed that she'd travelled far enough to be out of range for the Careers to reach her. Still, I find myself getting angry at her. She should have known that a fire would attract human predators. She should have worked harder to withstand the cold. It's because of her stupid decisions that I'm now about to take part in her killing. Of course, it's not really her I'm angry at, it's me. I didn't act quickly enough at the Cornucopia and now I've ended up becoming part of this wolf pack.

I want to call out to her. To warn her. But it would be no use. My allies are close enough to take her out, even if she were to start running now. And then they'd turn on me too and I'd be finished. No. The only thing left for me to do is to join the pack. Show the others that I'm one of them.

Cato gives the signal to move. We break into a sprint. The tributes behind me abandon stealth and turn their torches on as we close in on the girl by the fire. She wakes with a scream and jumps up as if to run. But it's too late. We have already entered the clearing. Her screaming turns to pleading.

"Noooo… pleeeease don't!" she squeals at Cato as he approaches with his sword raised. He doesn't respond. Instead, he thrusts his weapon straight into the centre of her chest in one quick motion. An agonised scream follows as the girl falls to her knees. Cato withdraws his sword and she slumps to the ground. And suddenly it's over. As quickly as that. Just like the rabbit down by the lake.

"Twelve down and eleven to go!" Drusa shouts triumphantly. The group responds with a round of approving cheers. I try to join in enthusiastically.

"Check her for supplies," Clove says to no one in particular. I grab the opportunity. The girl lies lifelessly on the ground, blood still pouring from her chest while I locate the pockets on her jacket. I can see her face clearly now. She's a younger girl, probably around 14. Her frame is thin from years of being underfed. No wonder she was cold. The girl's pockets are empty apart from a single box of matches. I hand them over to Clove but she throws them to the ground in disgust. "We've got plenty of these back at camp."

"Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking," says Cato. Now that the opening bloodbath is over, they will collect the bodies right after each death. But not before the killer has moved on, allowing us a small window to procure any supplies and weapons the victim may have left behind. Anything that is still with the deceased when they are lifted into the air is permanently removed from the arena.

We continue on at a brisk pace. But after travelling for just a few hundred metres, Cato suddenly stops. "Shouldn't we have heard a cannon by now?"

"I'd say yes. Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately," says Glimmer.

"Unless she isn't dead," says Marvel.

"She's dead. I stuck her myself," Cato defends.

"Then where's the cannon?" Marvel snaps back.

"Someone should go back. Make sure the job's done," says Drusa.

"Yes, we don't want to have to track her down twice," Glimmer agrees.

"I said she's dead!" Cato shouts angrily.

An argument breaks out. I decide not to get involved in this one.

It's then when I'm avoiding eye contact that I look up into the trees above and spot it. There, amongst a dense patch of willows is a small black clump. It's hard to make out at first, but as I squint my eyes and focus through the night glasses, it becomes clear that what I am seeing is a sleeping bag perched high in the tree. And poking out from the top of it, is an unmistakable dark braid of hair.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

My heart leaps in my chest. I look down at my feet immediately, careful not to alert the others that I have seen something up above. Fortunately, they are still engrossed in an argument about the girl by the fire and are paying no attention to me. But at any moment, Cato could let his eyes wander upward and see Katniss hidden in the tree through his night glasses. If she makes even the slightest sound, it'll all be over. I have to get the group to clear out, quickly.

"We're wasting time!' I interject loudly. "I'll go finish her and let's move on!"

"Go on then, Lover Boy, see for yourself," says Cato. I wasn't sure if they'd just let me go off on my own. But apparently they are either too lazy to do it themselves, or I'd built up more trust than I had realised. Maybe a little of both.

I hurry back the way we came, leaping over logs and pushing through the branches as quickly as I can. I'm so fixated on getting there fast and on my fear that Katniss could be spotted that I don't prepare myself for what is about to happen.

The girl is lying in the same position where we left her, her body resting awkwardly in the dirt. At first I think she is in fact dead, but as I draw closer, I notice the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. Thank goodness she's not conscious. I don't know how I could do this if she were awake.

Without wasting a second, I go over to kneel down beside her. Trying to convince myself that it somehow makes a difference, I look at her pale face, wipe the blood from her mouth, and whisper that I am sorry. Then I pull the knife from my belt and run it across her throat as firmly as I can. Not daring to look, I remove my glasses and turn to face the smouldering fire. After about 30 seconds, I check her pulse. Nothing. Job done.

The others are talking in hushed voices that quickly cease upon my return.

"Was she dead?" asks Cato.

"No. But she is now," I say. Just then, the cannon fires, as if to confirm my response. "Ready to move on?"

To my great relief, they agree and Cato sets off at a run once more. Katniss is out of danger, for now.

With my night glasses on, I don't notice that dawn has already broken until I hear the chatter of birdsong among the trees. The emerging daylight prompts complaints of fatigue from the group. Cato, who looks pretty tired himself, concedes and makes the call to return to the lake.

The journey takes a couple of hours, giving me more time than I would like to process the events of the evening. I see the face of the girl, the flicker of flames reflecting in her terrified eyes as Cato raises his weapon. Did that brute of a tribute feel anything as she pleaded with him? As he plunged his sword into her chest? He certainly didn't show it if he did. The kid seems intent on not just winning, but enjoying every moment. Relishing in his talent for killing.

Well I wish he was in fact as skilled as he thinks he is. Then I would not have had to do what I did. I killed someone. A little girl. Sure, she was already dying, but it doesn't prevent the guilt from seeping in, pressing down on me like a crushing weight. The only way I can bare it is to keep reminding myself that I'm doing this for Katniss. I'm doing this for Katniss.

Katniss. She was close enough up in that tree to hear our voices and see us in the torchlight. She now knows that I am travelling with the Careers. What must she be thinking? Does she know me well enough to realise that I would never have joined them willingly? Does she think I would try to help them find her? What would she make of my volunteering to go back and finish the girl? She is smart but also sceptical about the good intentions of others. I'd be fooling myself if I thought she figured out that I was actually trying to help her. No, even if I were her, the conclusion I would probably come to is that the Games have changed me. That I've transformed into a brutal, arrogant killer just like the rest of the Careers. That I've become exactly what I said I wanted to avoid, back on the roof the night before.

She must be utterly disgusted with me. She'll probably spend the evenings looking up at the night sky, hoping to see my face hanging there. Or maybe she's even plotting to off me herself. No, she's not that vindictive. But I wouldn't blame her if she was. If I were her, I'd want to totally destroy me for allying with these vicious, arrogant killers.

It makes me feel physically sick to imagine what Katniss must be thinking about me. The thoughts go around and around in my head, forcing their way in every time I try to push them out again. I can barely stand it. I'll never get the opportunity to prove that I had merely been trying to help her. Let alone show her that I truly am in love with her, as Haymitch and I had discussed. I'm going to have to accept that I will die with her thinking of me as a traitor and a ruthless murderer.

At least my family and the rest of the nation back home will know the truth. It would have made for riveting television to have seen the Career pack at the base of Katniss's tree. The cameras will no doubt have captured the moment when I spotted Katniss and then seen how I urged the group to move on quickly.

By the time we reach the camp, we are all completely exhausted. The Careers are so confident that no one will attack them at base camp during the day that they don't even bother making someone stay awake to keep watch. Even Felix is allowed to sleep, although he's not granted the luxury of a tent. Having now been awake for two nights in a row, my body falls in a heap and I'm out to it in a second.

I'm the last to wake up. It looks to be late afternoon by the time I emerge from my tent. The others are all sitting casually by the fire munching on food from the supply stack. They don't say anything to me as I arrive but seem to accept my presence without protest. I'm still not exactly sure where I stand. I have not been entirely invited into the gang, but they are at least beginning to see me as a useful resource. For now. It's as good as I can expect really, and it should be good enough to allow me to continue keeping them off Katniss's trail.

"What's over that way?" Clove asks, gesturing to the area on the far side of the circle.

"A field," Marvel says. "I chased Thresh into there yesterday. But he disappeared among the tall grasses. I wasn't about to go in there and track him down when he had such good cover."

"Well, he can't stay in there forever. He'll have to come out for food and water," says Drusa. "And when he does, we'll be waiting."

The afternoon soon rolls into evening and the Careers start building up to another night of hunting. The nightly recap in the sky reveals only the loss of the girl by the fire, who was apparently from District 8. Right now they will be broadcasting in gruesome detail Cato's attack and the cut I made across her neck that ended her life. I shudder and try to push the images out of my mind once more.

"So who's left then?" Clove asks the group.

"Apart from all of us, there's just five," I say.

"I didn't ask how many, I asked who! I know how to count," Clove snaps at me. I don't respond, deciding it's best to keep my mouth shut.

"There's the cripple from Ten, who knows how he's still alive, Thresh, and that little girl from Eleven," says Drusa.

"Then it's just the redheaded girl from Five and Katniss," Marvel adds.

"Might be a short Games then," Clove says with a smirk.

It's so strange. Seeing them talk like this about who's left. They must all be acutely aware that even though there are only five out there, they still have each other to worry about. Felix and I are no contest, unless we manage to escape. But even then I doubt they'd be too concerned about taking us out. That still leaves five Careers. They seem to be oblivious to the fact that, at some point, they will turn on each other and fight to the death. But they're not oblivious, of course. Each of them will be carefully plotting how and when they are going to make their attack. They probably even made plans about it with their mentors before entering the arena.

Cato talks us through the plan for the evening. "As Drusa said, it's better to wait for Thresh to come out of the field for now. There could be all sorts of traps and wild animals hidden in the grasses, and he can use that to his advantage if we go after him in there." The others nod in agreement. "So let's do what we did last night and focus on finding the other four. The cripple won't be too hard, and there's a good chance the redhead and the tiny girl will be hidden in the trees, so don't forget to look up."

Darn. I wish there was some way I could warn Katniss. She doesn't know that Cato has night glasses and will be able to see her in the dark cover of the trees.

"So that just leaves Katniss," Cato says. "Who will by now have built herself a shelter on or under the ground somewhere. Be on the lookout for anything unusual in the patterns of the woods. The only thing is…" He pauses, looking at me carefully and narrowing his eyes. "We need to know how she got that eleven in training."

I knew this question was coming, and I've been dreading it. "I wish I knew. Haymitch told her not to tell me or anyone else," I try to say casually.

"Liar," says Drusa. "If you two are actually lovers, she'd have told you. Tell us, Lover Boy!"

"We're not lovers. I've liked her all my life but I don't even know if she likes me," I defend. Of course, I know for sure that she doesn't have feelings for me, but I don't want to let the audience in on that fact. They need to believe that the romance goes both ways.

"But you guys did everything together. You dressed the same, sat with each other at lunch, trained together. You even held hands during the opening ceremony. So don't lie and tell us you don't know!" Drusa says, her voice growing in frustration.

"I don't. I tried to get her to tell me but she wouldn't. I figured that even if she did like me, she knew that only one of us could survive. If she had to be the one to kill me, she wouldn't want me to know what her secret was," I say.

There's a brief silence while they try to figure out whether or not I'm telling the truth. Then Marvel, who seemed to have taken a strong disliking to me from the start, lurches forward and grips the front of my shirt with both hands, causing me to stumble onto my back. "Look, Lover Boy, if you don't tell us right now, I'm gonna kill you. Slice you up bit by bit until you bleed slowly to death." He's leaning right over the top of me, his face so close to mine that I can feel his breath on my cheek.

"I said I don't know! What else can I tell you?" I cry out, the fear in my voice is palpable.

To my surprise, it's Felix who speaks up. "He's telling the truth."

"Oh? And what would you know?" Marvel shouts at him, refusing to look away from me.

"I figured out how to set up the mi… I mean protect the suppliers didn't I? Well I'm good at figuring people out too," he says. "The whole reason why you decided to keep him alive was because you knew that if he wanted to save his own life, he'd help you find Katniss, right? Plus, it doesn't make any sense that he'd join you guys but then withhold just one piece of information."

Marvel loosens his grip a little and turns toward the others, looking for backup. "But he didn't choose to join us. I caught him and then we made him come along with us," Marvel argues.

"True, but since then, he's had plenty of opportunities to escape." Glimmer says. "He could have just run off instead of killing that kid from 8, or even while we were sleeping. He might not have wanted to join us at the beginning, but it doesn't look like he wants to leave now either."

Hearing the girl from his own district seems to have a soothing effect on the enraged boy. He lets go of me and sits back on his heels.

"Okay then, Lover Boy, I guess it's possible you don't know. But if we find out you've been lying, you are going to regret not telling us. I won't kill you. No, I'm going to torture you so bad you're going to want to kill yourself," he says, a sinister smile forming across his lips. "Oh, and if Katniss is still alive by then, I'll make you watch as we do the same to her."

This is all just a scare tactic to frighten me into telling them what I know. But there's no real way they'll be able to find out the truth. Katniss would have to tell them, and I can't imagine it coming up in conversation. Even still, Marvel's words really do send a chill down my spine.

Cato instructs us to fuel up with food before we head out for the hunt. He doesn't want us taking breaks to eat. I fill the water bottles and ready all the packs with basic supplies. We each grab the same weapons as the night before, and Cato leads us out once more.

But the night ends in frustration for the Careers when we don't find a single victim. The woods are dense and there are so many good hiding places that we don't even catch a single sign of another tribute.

The next two days follow the same pattern. We come back to sleep and refuel during the day, and hunt at night, finding nothing. It's not a good sign. Three days with no action. The audience will be getting bored, and boring is one thing the Games cannot ever be. The Gamemakers will be forced to intervene to get things moving again. They will either do something to drive us together or change something in the arena to make things more interesting. More deadly. On the return from our third night of hunting, just before dawn, they decide to do both.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

The woods around us suddenly transform into a cloud of flame and smoke. Walls of fire stretch upwards in thick, unnatural looking sheets. Branches from above rapidly catch alight and explode in the heat, causing showers of sparks and debris to fall around us. The fire seems to be coming at us in all directions at once. Closing in. The tough, threatening demeanour that usually characterises my allies is replaced with shameless, animalistic terror. Their weapons and all the training provided by their districts can do nothing against a blazing inferno. The six of us stand huddled together in the middle like cornered mice.

For a moment, I think the Gamemakers have decided to take us all out at once. To punish us for the lack of excitement we have brought to the Games so far. But that doesn't make sense. Killing the best fighters would make the Games even less desirable to watch. And people will have bet a lot of money on these players. There would be outrage if the Gamemakers were responsible for deliberately killing all the Careers. The only conclusion I can come to is that there must be a way out.

My eyes dart around frantically in the increasingly thick layers of smoke. I still have the night glasses on, but they are of no help in the haze and the light from the fire distorts my vision. The flames creep closer and closer, causing the heat to prickle and burn the skin on my exposed face and hands. A wave of panic ripples through my body, shutting down my capacity to reason. All I can think is, 'get out, get out, get out!' But it's getting harder to see by the second, and before long, the fire will be on top of us.

Maybe there is no path out, exactly. Maybe we are just supposed to run through it. There's no way to figure out the density of the flames. But they came on all of a sudden, like someone flicked a switch, so there hasn't been time for the fire to spread far. Of course, the Gamemakers could have made them a mile thick they'd wanted to. But I can't see another way to escape, and there must be one. Mustn't there?

I'm out of time. It's either burn to death standing here or make a run for it. I decide to run. I pick a direction at random, cover my nose and mouth with the top of my shirt, and pull my jacket over my head. Then I propel myself forward as quickly as my legs will carry me, right into the raging mass of flames.

I scream, fully expecting the fire to engulf me and barbeque my flesh. But not a moment after I enter the blaze, I emerge on the other side. It takes me half a dozen steps to slow down again, but when I do, I realise that the bottom of my trousers has caught alight. I fling my pack off and tear the jacket from my back, wrapping it around my leg to smother the fire. It's extinguished in just a few brief seconds, but not before the flames had time to do some real damage.

I'm about to lift my pants to inspect the wound when Cato and Clove appear through the fire wall, followed shortly after by the other three. Marvel acts quickly to rip Gimmer's flaming jacket off, stomping on it to snuff out the flames. But no one helps Drusa, whose long hair caught alight during the passage through the fire. She screams wildly as she scrambles to retrieve a water bottle from her pack. By the time she's emptied the contents of the bottle, her head is a smouldering mess of singed black hair.

But before any of us have a moment to recover or assess the damage, two new walls of fire flare up to our left and right. I steal a glance behind me to confirm what I already know. The fire that we'd all taken passage through has lurched forward and is heading straight for us. The Gamemakers want us to be on the move.

"Run!" I shout. I'm on my feet in a second, sprinting toward the only section of woods that isn't burning. I can hear the others following closely behind me as I race through the forest, jumping over logs and weaving through the trees. Twigs and branches seem to come out of nowhere and smack me in the face. But I don't slow down. The fire is pursuing us like a ferocious beast, eager to pounce and devour its prey. The heat is utterly unbearable. It burns the inside of my lungs as I suck in each breath. My skin feels as though it could catch alight at any moment. But even worse than the heat is the thick smoke that threatens to suffocate me. I'm beginning to choke, coughing and spluttering as I run. I can't seem to get enough air into my lungs.

Cato overtakes me, and Marvel follows shortly after, disappearing into the dense haze ahead. The others are right behind me, I can hear them panting and coughing as they try to escape the danger at their heels. The sun has not yet made it beyond the horizon and without night glasses, they will still be relying on me to navigate a clear path through the scrub. I see the occasional flicker of a torch, but it's no use. The light acts to reflect the smoke, making it even harder to see. My own eyes are streaming with water, further distorting the mass of grey landscape in front of me.

Suddenly there's a sharp cry from up ahead, followed by a loud thud. In the moment it takes to register what happened, I tumble down with a crash, right next to Marvel. We've both tripped over the same tangle of vines. The girls manage to perceive the danger and leap over the brush before racing past us.

I struggle to my feet, narrowly avoiding a burning log as it smashes into the forest floor. I go to run, but am halted by the sounds of Marvel shouting on the ground. "Help! I'm stuck!" he screams, his voice alive with terror. The burning log has rolled onto his foot, trapping it underneath. Without taking a moment to think, I reach for the log and pull. It rolls forward, but I lose my grip and it slips back onto his foot. The blaze of fire is approaching, getting brighter and hotter by the second. Marvel sees it and starts to panic, thrashing about on the ground and screaming incoherently.

"Stop!" I shout at him, grabbing hold of his arms to still him. "You're going to have to work with me. Push off with your free leg as I pull, okay?" He nods. "Ready… go!" He does as I instructed and I heave with the remainder of my strength. The log rolls back just enough for Marvel to free himself. Without a word, he quickly climbs to his feet and sets off again. I tumble after him, trying hard to pull the air back into my lungs.

After a short while, we catch up with the others, who are standing hunched over or collapsed on the ground in a large clearing. I look behind me to find that the flames have receded. We've either outrun the range of the fire, or the Gamemakers have decided to let it subside for now. I fall to my knees and try to catch my breath, but the lingering smoke continues to fill my lungs and it's not long before I'm gagging and vomiting. A few of the others are doing the same. I retch, over and over until nothing but bile and trapped air are coming up.

When it finally ceases, I reach for the water bottle in my pack and take a few swigs to remove the vile taste in my mouth and try to return some hydration to my body. It's tempting to gulp down the whole bottle in one go, but I refrain. I don't have enough water left to risk vomiting it up again. My head is pounding hard, and I feel dizzy and disoriented, like I've taken a severe knock to the skull. So when I hear the first hiss, I assume that my brain is just playing tricks on me.

The fireball hits a tree in the narrow space between the Careers and where I'm sitting. Apparently the walls of fire were just to get us moving. Now the audience will get to see a real show. None of us hesitates. We are off and running in an instant. At the sound of the next hiss, I immediately flatten my body to the ground. The fireball hits the tree just in front of me, narrowly missing Glimmer as she sprints ahead. I'm only just on my feet when the next one explodes onto the ground, right in the spot where I had been lying. That wasn't a random shot. Somewhere back in a clean, calm control room, there is a person sitting at a desk, their finger on a trigger, seeking to blow me to bits. My only hope is that I'm not the only target.

I scramble along behind the others, leaping, diving, and zigzagging at the sound of each hiss. I'm a moment from just giving up and collapsing from exhaustion when the attack finally begins to abate. I catch up to the rest of the group, who have stopped to regain their breath in a dense patch of woods farther along. My body is trembling uncontrollably from the exertion, or maybe from the accumulation of toxic smoke in my blood, I can't tell. I crumple to my knees. The world around me is spinning and I feel like I'm about to pass out. I'm not even aware of the next fireball until it smashes into the tree above my head. It bursts into flames and there's a loud crack. My body instinctively lurches forward, only not quite fast enough. The burning branch slams into my chest, knocking me to the ground and pinning me underneath. I scream out in agony, first from the impact and then from the fire as it burns into my flesh. No one comes to my aid.

I pull the sleeves of my jacket over my hands and grab hold of the burning wood. But it's too heavy. No matter how hard I push and heave, the log doesn't budge. I have no oxygen left in my lungs. No strength left in my muscles. The torturous events of the morning have left me totally empty. Panic sets in. I'm not strong enough to free myself. I'm going to slowly burn to death beneath this log while the Careers stand by and do nothing.

An image of Katniss flashes in my mind. But not some sweet, sentimental image, as if to say goodbye. It's a memory of the argument we had about each other's skills for the arena. Katniss insisted that I'm strong, telling Haymitch that I can throw one hundred pound bags of flour. She's right. And this log can't weigh more than that. I might be weak right now, but maybe if I get in the right position…

I locate the thinner portion of the branch to my left and drag it up towards my head as I wriggle downwards. Now, with the log resting beneath my biceps, I reposition my hands, take in a breath, and heave upwards. The wood lifts above my chest and I push it over my head with a wild grunt of exertion. I am free.

I roll over onto my front to smother the flames on my jacket. Then I just lay there, my face in the dirt, unable to move any further. If the Gamemakers wanted to finish me off, now is the time. I'm done. Part of me would even welcome another fireball to extinguish the agonising pain from the burn across my chest. But it doesn't come. The attack is finally over.

As I slip in and out of consciousness, I'm vaguely aware of the others, coughing and gagging just a few feet away. When they slowly begin to start talking again, their voices are raspy and hoarse. They compare injuries and recount the close calls they successfully avoided. Marvel even tells the others about the encounter with the burning log, but deliberately omits the part where I helped to free him.

I let my eyes close and pass out once more. It's mid-afternoon by the time I regain consciousness again. Cato is at my side, kicking me lightly but repeatedly in the thigh. "You right there, Lover Boy?" he says when he sees that I'm awake. "Thought you'd gone and died on us already." I let out a slow groan. "Come on, time to get up, we're not done with you yet." He uses his boot to roll me onto my back, then clasps his hands around my wrists and drags me to my feet. I'm woozy and my body is still trembling but I manage to take five or six wonky paces to join the rest of the crew before slumping down on a rock beside them.

I take a moment to inspect my wounds. The burns beneath my trousers are not as bad as I thought they'd be. There is some blistering and patches of raw skin. I've had wounds like this from the furnace in the bakery before, so I know that despite the pain, it's nothing to be alarmed about. Except that if I were at home, I would have been bathing the burns in cold water and perhaps treating them with my mother's home burn remedy. No such luck here.

Next, I carefully remove the seared remains of my jacket and lift up my shirt to take a look.

"Uhh!" Cries Glimmer in disgust.

"Nasty one you got there," adds Marvel, perhaps with a little more warmth in his voice than before. He is not wrong. The strip where the log had landed across my chest has left the entire area red raw and bleeding. Blisters have formed around the edges, some of which have burst and are weeping and bleeding. I pull my shirt back down quickly. Looking at it only serves to worsen the excruciating pain, and there's nothing I can do to treat it now anyway. Perhaps I can get into the lake when we make it back to camp.

But Cato isn't interested in wound management. He has other things on his mind. "Things are about to get interesting," he says. As if they haven't been interesting enough already today. "As you all know, the likely reason for the fire was to draw us closer together. Now that it's stopped, that can only mean one thing."

"There are other tributes nearby," Clove says.

"Exactly," says Cato with a knowing smile. "And they are probably injured too. If we act quickly, we might be able to track down and take out a few more by the time the day is out." He pauses and looks around at us. "So, let's take the next ten minutes or so to rehydrate and fuel up."

With the searing pain across my chest and the overall state of weakness in my whole body, embarking on another hunt seems beyond impossible. I'm not even sure I'm able to stand without being sick. But I have no choice but to try. If Cato sees me as slowing the pack down or otherwise inhibiting his pursuit of human prey, I'll likely be his next victim. I try to eat, but all I can get down is a single piece of dried fruit. It seems to be enough to settle my stomach at least. I continue to sip water, but supplies are limited. Two packs were left behind during the fires, and the contents of the remaining bottles must be shared among the six of us.

"Does anyone know where we are?" Glimmer asks.

"The Hunger Games Arena," says Drusa, laughing. I get the sense that the others, especially Drusa, don't like Glimmer very much.

"You know what I mean! Where is the camp from here?" says Glimmer.

"The lake is about two miles in that direction," Marvel says, pointing to his left.

"Can we go back to fill up our water bottles?" asks Glimmer.

"No, we've got enough to keep us going for at least a few hours. I'm not going to waste this opportunity," says Cato firmly.

"Actually, Glimmer might be onto something," says Clove. "Like Cato said, the other tributes were probably injured in the fire attack, so they are likely to be seeking refuge by the water somewhere. Maybe the lake isn't a bad idea."

"No. Not, the lake," says Marvel. His face has twisted into an ugly, sadistic grin. "Oh, the Gamemakers are clever. Yes they are. There are some spring pools just a few hundred metres north of here." The kid has somehow been mapping the terrain in his head. "I bet my right arm that we will find someone hiding out at those pools right now."

And find someone we do. There, laying half in the pool with a pack secured to her back, is the sight I had feared most.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

At first I think she might already be dead, but there has been no cannon and we're far enough away that a hovercraft would be permitted to collect her. Katniss must be asleep. And most likely injured too since she is lying in the water without any cover or protection. Completely vulnerable. The only thing in her favour is that we are on the other side of the large pool and there's some rough terrain between us.

I think about calling out to her. It would of course result in my immediate execution, but it might buy her enough time to escape. If they did manage to catch up to her though, which is pretty likely if she is in fact injured, I wouldn't be around to offer any sort of protection or defence. Not that I really know what I could do to help. Still, my instincts tell me that I'll be more use alive than dead at this stage. Maybe that's just my general instinct to survive talking, but it's all I've got to work with, so I decide to go with it.

I conjure up a kind of loose plan to accidentally trip to and make a loud noise as I land, hoping it will be enough to wake her. But I don't get a chance. The Careers have been out of action for too long and are eager to start the chase.

Cato leads us out. We run, crashing through the trees and leaping over boulders at a rapid pace. It's a reckless move. Katniss is awake and on her feet in an instant. The pack splits off in different directions as each person attempts to navigate the most efficient route. I try to keep up with Cato, but he's quick and surprisingly agile for his size, and it's not long until I fall behind. As we run, the Careers call out to each other in their croaky voices, providing updates on Katniss's movements and urging one another to hurry. It really does feel as though we are a ferocious wolf pack, closing in on our prey.

We are gaining on her, fast. Katniss knows it and quickly takes to a tree. She has already climbed about six metres by the time we reach the base of the trunk. I'm the last to arrive, having been slowed down by my various injuries. I prop my body against a large boulder in an attempt to remain upright. The wounds on my chest are causing such agony that I have to work hard to avoid throwing up.

For a moment, Katniss stops to look down. The Careers pause too, peering up to survey the situation. They seem pretty pleased with themselves. Grimacing and snarling to one another, they think they've landed a sure kill. But they don't know what I know. Katniss is like a squirrel in the trees. No one will be able to climb the heights that she can get to. Especially not when she's 20 kilos lighter than the smallest of the pack. She will also be outside the range of any weapon that can be thrown by hand. Glimmer of course has the bow and arrows, but I saw her in training with them and she is not a particularly good shot.

Katniss initiates the exchange. "How's everything with you?" her voice is relaxed and cheerful, though somewhat dry. The Careers seem a little taken aback.

"Well enough," Cato says. "Yourself?"

"It's been a bit warm for my taste," she says casually. "The air is better up here. Why don't you come up?"

"Think I will," says Cato. I can't help smiling. I'm surprised he's foolish enough to take the bait. I guess he really is desperate for a kill.

"Here, take this, Cato," says Glimmer, offering him the bow and arrows.

"No, I'll do better with my sword," he says, pushing the bow aside.

Katniss waits until Cato has hoisted himself into the tree before she begins to climb again. She is already another ten metres in the air when a branch snaps beneath Cato's foot. He hits the ground hard, causing him to curse profusely.

Glimmer, who's the smallest of the pack, attempts to scale the tree next. But at around 12 metres, a branch begins to crack beneath her feet and she decides to stop. Katniss is at least 25 metres high now and it's clear that no one has the skill to reach her.

Glimmer perches herself on a branch, wrapping her legs around the tree, and pulls out the bow. After the first few arrows fly, it's clear that she's not going to get anywhere near Katniss. One lodges in the tree and Katniss climbs over to retrieve it and then waves it teasingly down at Glimmer. The Careers swear and groan in frustration. They are furious that Katniss is making them look foolish. Glimmer has enough sense not to waste any more arrows and returns to the ground.

"I'm almost out of reasons for keeping you around, Glimmer," Cato growls at her. "Is there anything you _can_ do?" The embarrassed girl simply looks down at her feet, saying nothing to defend herself. It's probably a wise move. Cato's face has turned red with rage. There's every chance he might just snap and kill whatever annoys him next. "Can any of you morons shoot that thing?" Cato says gesturing to the bow in Glimmer's hands. To my relief, everyone shakes their heads.

"What about your knives?" Drusa asks Clove.

"No, they won't reach that far," says Clove. "If I could climb higher in the tree, then maybe I could get her."

"What if we get some ropes or something? I think I'd be able to construct a harness and then we can all hoist you into the tree," Marvel suggests.

"But it's getting late. It will be dark in an hour or so. How long will it take to make the harness?" Clove says.

"Depends what supplies are back at camp. I'd say at least a few hours, plus the time it takes to walk to the lake and back."

This causes a round of grumbling from the group. We've been awake for over twenty-four hours now, most of us are injured, and the physical and emotional challenges of the day have left us without anything in reserve. No one wants to go back to the lake, much less stay up to wait for a fight.

"Can't we do something else?" says Clove.

Their best chance is probably to set the tree on fire, but no one has thought of that yet. I decide to intervene before they do.

"Oh, let her stay up there. It's not like she's going anywhere. We'll deal with her in the morning," I say. It's only a temporary solution, but if there's a chance I can come up with some way to help her escape, the more time I have the better.

"Yeah, all right then, Lover Boy, let's make camp here tonight," Cato says, exasperated. "If we haven't figured anything else out by the morning, well go ahead with Marvel's idea and make the harness first thing." The others are visibly relieved by this decision, though not nearly as much as me.

Marvel offers to take the first watch, and volunteers Glimmer to take the second, perhaps trying to demonstrate her usefulness to the group. The pair from District 1 may not be friends, but they at least seem to be looking out for one another. I lie down in my sleeping bag along with the others, but without any intention of actually sleeping. If I haven't figured out a way to help Katniss by the time morning arrives, she won't survive the day. She's completely trapped up there. Like an animal caught in a net waiting for the hunter to return. And return they will.

But what could I possibly do to help? I have a fleeting idea of starting a fire nearby in the hope that it would cause the Careers to run off. But it's stupid. I'd have no way of setting it up without alerting the sentry. And even if I did, it's unlikely I'd get it to become ferocious enough to drive them away very far. By the time Katniss climbs down from the tree, they will have looped back around and be waiting for her.

Come on Peeta! Think! I urge myself. I can't fight the Careers. Not even when they are asleep. At best, I'd only manage to disable one or two of them before the others woke up and put an end to me. That still leaves too many for an unarmed Katniss. Maybe I could try to get rid of or destroy their weapons somehow. But I realise how impossible that will be when I look around and see that each person is sleeping with their armament in hand. Even Glimmer is clutching the bow that she is so inept at using. Oh, how the tables would turn if I could just get hold of that weapon and give it to Katniss. But I can't figure out any way to make that work. If the sentry didn't stop me from snatching the weapon, they'd surely take me out before I could climb the tree. Perhaps if Katniss came down low enough in the tree, I could throw it to her, but for that to work, she'd need to be already in position right at the moment when I snatched the bow from Glimmer, and we have no way of communicating to coordinate such a plan.

It all seems utterly impossible when it suddenly occurs to me that I'm thinking about it the wrong way. I'm trying to figure out how to beat them or enable Katniss to do so when all I really need to do is disperse our opponents. To get them away from the tree long enough for Katniss to climb down and escape. I only need a few minutes.

There's one thing the Careers want. A hunt. And I can give them one. Instead of going after Katniss, I can make them switch their attention to pursuing me. If I attack them and then make a run for it, they couldn't just let me escape. Not after causing damage to their crew. They would have to come after me. The Careers will catch up with me eventually, and who knows what they would to me do after such betrayal. I'm certain to face some kind of torture. Cato will want to make sure I suffer. But I came in here with a job to do, and this is probably my best opportunity to do it. I'm going to die anyway; I can handle a little suffering before I go.

The plan is a long shot, but it's the best I can come up with. I decide that it's better not to launch the attack until just after dawn. They need to be able to see me well enough to chase me through the woods and Katniss will be at a disadvantage in the darkness against Cato with his night glasses. I select Glimmer as the best person to target for the attack. She will be awake as the sentry anyway, and it will free up the bow and arrows for Katniss to collect if she gets the chance. If there's time, I could also try to attack Clove or Marvel. They can throw their weapons a long distance and could potentially take me out before I get very far.

My thoughts are interrupted by the Capitol anthem and the nightly recap. Again, there have been no deaths today. That's okay though; the audience will have been thoroughly entertained by today's events and will now be watching with anticipation upon seeing the pack at the base of Katniss's tree. Whatever happens tomorrow, they know they'll be in for a show.

The anthem ends in the sky returns to darkness. "There will be at least one face in the sky tomorrow night," Cato says, half asleep. Yes, I think. There will be at least one tomorrow.

The night drags on. I don't sleep. I can't stop thinking about how Katniss must be feeling up in the tree. Is she scared? Is she preparing for her death? Or maybe she hasn't given up just yet. She could be devising her own plan to get herself out of this situation. I hope it's a better one than mine.

I turn my thoughts over to my planned attack and try to play out all the possible outcomes in my head. There are a thousand different ways it could go. Glimmer is not exactly an easy target. She could attack me back and disable me before I get a chance to run. Or the others will wake up before I even launch the attack. Perhaps I'll implement the first part well, but then receive a spear or knife to the back before I've covered any real distance. Who will wake up first? What will their reactions be? Will they be ready to attack or will they be confused and struggle to withdraw from their sleeping bags before I can escape?

By the time the first signs of dawn arrive, I've been absorbed in thinking about it for so long that I don't even feel scared anymore. All that remains is an eagerness to set the plan in motion. I'm ready. This is what I came here to do. It will all be over in a matter of minutes.

I take a deep breath and arrange myself. Then I slowly and silently wriggle out of my sleeping bag and creep up onto my feet. So far, no one has stirred. I carefully remove the knife from my belt and clutch it tightly in my right hand, as if I'm afraid of dropping it.

To my relief, Glimmer is actually asleep, her body resting in a semi-upright position against a tree. Good. She will be even easier to kill, I say callously to myself. I inch slowly toward her, being careful not to make a sound as my feet tread on the ground below. My heart is thumping so hard in my chest that I'm worried it will wake the others up. It's now or never. Just one more step before I'm within range to strike. The sweat on my palms causes the knife to feel slippery in my hand. I adjust my grip and raise my arm upwards, ready to strike. But before I take the final step, there's a loud thud from behind. I spin around expecting to see one of the Careers pointing a weapon at me. But it's not another tribute. Katniss has launched her own attack from above.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

The wasp nest lands a few metres from the centre of our camp. It bursts open, sending a furious swarm into the air. I'm off in an instant, bolting through the trees as fast as my legs will take me. The others are slower to react, having to fight their way out of their sleeping bags before they can run. I don't look back, but the agonised screams coming from behind tell me that at least two of the girls have fallen prey to the venomous insects.

"To the lake! To the lake!" Clove cries out. I doubt we'll make it that far before the wasps catch up to us, but I don't have a better plan, so I continue sprinting in what I believe to be the direction of our camp.

The first sting penetrates right behind my ear. I know immediately that these are not ordinary wasps. They are one of the Capitol's nastier muttations, the tracker jackers. Similar to jabberjays, these killer wasps were spawned in a lab and strategically placed, like land mines, around the districts during the war. Larger than regular wasps, they have a distinctive solid gold body and a sting that raises a lump the size of a plum on contact. Most people can't tolerate more than a few stings. Some die at once. If you live, the hallucinations brought on by the venom have actually driven people to madness. The wasps are designed to track hunt down anyone who disturbs their nest. That's where the tracker part of the name comes from. And even though we weren't the ones to destroy the nest, it seems as though these tracker jackers have attributed the source of the attack to us on the ground.

The sting immediately brings on a sharp pain followed by a woozy feeling that causes me to become unsteady on my feet. It's a battle to stay upright, but I keep moving forward. Cato and Marvel overtake me. So far, they seem to have fared worse than I. Enormous lumps have formed where the tracker jackers injected their poison. Marvel's arms are covered with them. He falls to the ground and screams out an agonised cry before convulsing and going limp. This time I don't stop to save him. I keep on running.

I feel another sharp sting on my leg. Then another. And another. I try to ignore them and focus on the forest in front of me. But the trees already seem to be warping in strange ways as the venom burrows into my system.

I briefly lose awareness as I clamber blindly along. I don't even realise I'm in the spring pool until I'm up to my waist in water. Cato is already in and fully submerges himself in attempt to ward off the attacks. I follow suit, trying to stay under for as long as I can stand. The water takes the edge off the pain from the stings and finally brings some relief to the burns on my chest and legs.

I steal a quick breath and slip back under. The last thing I want is a sting to the face. When I finally re-emerge, the flying predators are nowhere in sight. Unable to locate us as prey, they have either targeted the others or called off the attack. Cato appears to have come to the same conclusion because he's already climbing hurriedly out of the water. But instead of following the others towards the lake, he turns to head back in the direction from which we came. At first I think he's just deluded from the venom and is not sure where he is going. But then I see the look of vicious determination on his swollen face, and I realise. He is going after Katniss.

I leap out of the water with about as much grace as a three-legged cow and tumble after him. Cato has proved on several occasions to be faster than me, but right now he's so wobbly from the venom that I quickly catch up with him. Without hesitating, I throw my body at him, wrapping my arms around his waist and pull him to the ground. The attack takes him by surprise and he is slow to react. I use the opportunity to throw in a few quick punches to his face, right on top of a swollen tracker jacker lump. Then I climb to my feet and continue running towards Katniss's tree.

There's somehow enough clarity remaining in my distorted mind that when I come across Marvel lying unconscious on the ground, I swoop down to snatch one of his spears. If Cato catches up with me, and no doubt he will, a knife is no defence against his sword.

I hear a cannon go off, and then another. No time to wonder who they might be for. Cato is on his feet again, crashing through the woods behind me.

The hallucinations begin to take over. Trees split in two and extend upwards into menacing purple clouds. The whole forest is expanding and contracting as if it's alive, breathing in and out. Distorted sounds of screaming erupt from inside my head, making it feel as though it will explode. My arms are crawling with tiny little snakes that bore their way into my skin and crawl up my veins. My feet slip and slide around on the ground which appears to be covered in sparkly, silver slime.

As I approach the location of the fallen wasp nest, I see movement through the trees. I immediately assume that it must be one of the other Careers who has come back to slay Katniss. I lift my spear, ready to attack as I emerge into the clearing. But the only Career in sight is Glimmer, whose horrifically disfigured body lies lifelessly on the ground. Katniss is hunched over beside her, clutching the bow and arrows in her hands. She looks like a wild animal that's been trapped in a corner, frozen in terror.

"What are you still doing here?" I hiss at her. "Are you mad?" Katniss simply stares back up at me uncomprehendingly. I prod her with the shaft of my spear. "Get up! Get up!" She rises slowly to her feet, but then just stands there looking blankly back at me, as if my words make no sense. She does not seem to realise the danger she is in. The tracker jackers must have stung her, too.

Time is about to run out. Behind me, I can hear Cato approaching. He's yelling and swearing like a crazed person as he fights his way through the trees. I'm pushing Katniss away but she just shuffles backwards and continues to stare, her expression vacant. Finally, I give her a hard shove in the other direction. "Run!" I scream. "Run!"

It's not until she sees Cato appear behind me that she finally understands. Her eyes grow wide and she turns to bolt in the other direction.

I spin around to find Cato already upon me, his sword raised for attack. He knocks the spear from my hand and swings his sword back to strike again. I dive sideways and hit the ground. Not fast enough. The blade slices through the air and comes down hard, slashing me through the thigh. Cato staggers forward to stand over me. In my deluded mind, he looks twenty feet tall, snarling and slobbering like a vicious wolf. I simply look up at him, unmoving, defenceless. At least it will be quick. It's the best death I can hope for in the arena. Cato lifts the bloodied sword high above his head to prepare for a final blow.

I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the strike that will end my life. But it doesn't come. I steal another glance just in time to see Cato's eyes roll back into his head. He falls to his knees with a crash that seems to send the whole forest shaking, before collapsing on the ground, his face in the dirt. Like Marvel, Cato's body convulses for a long while and then goes limp.

For a moment, I'm frozen. Unsure of what to do and unable to process rational thought. I shake my head hard in an attempt to regain some clarity to my deteriorating mind. It sends my world spinning. The only lucid thought I manage to grasp onto tells me that I have to clear out of here. It's only a matter of time before I lose consciousness like the others, and I don't want to be lying here comatose if Cato wakes up.

I roll over and attempt to climb to my feet. But it's immediately apparent that walking will not be an option. The cut on my leg is bad. Really bad. It could just be the hallucinations, but looking through the tear in my pants, I'm sure I can actually see bone beneath the wide gash. It's strange though, I can't feel any pain at all. Perhaps the venom affects your ability to experience normal sensation. Well that's one thing in my favour at least.

I look around and quickly survey my options. Most of what I can see is dense wilderness. That will be no help. I'd have to travel a long way before I reached any safe distance or cover. That's not going to be possible with my leg the way it is. I'd be lucky to get 20 metres. That's if I don't pass out along the way. Behind me lies my only option. It's an assembly of rocks and boulders that form a large mound. If I can get over the top and to the other side, I might be able to hide there. Perhaps Cato and the others won't look for me such a short distance from the attack.

I don't waste any time. Using the remaining strength in my arms and right leg, I drag my body over to the edge of the rocks and hoist myself upwards. The boulders appear to be breathing beneath me, like the forest, and I have to stop and hug them tightly so I don't lose my footing. The trail of blood flowing from my leg dances and swirls around on the rock face. I try to push it away with my hands but it just smears and continues to swirl about. I'm starting to completely lose my grip on reality. I reach the top, sweating, panting, bleeding. Half dead. Then I simply let myself tumble down the other side. My body comes to an abrupt halt when I slam into a rock on the edge of a silver stream of glistening water, just as I slip out of consciousness.

I fall into a nightmare from which I wake over and over, only to succumb to a new onslaught of vividly detailed images that assault me with my greatest fears. Repeatedly, I watch Katniss die some graphic, horrifying death. Sometimes at the hands of the Careers, sometimes, the Capitol. Sometimes it's even me doing the killing. On at least one occasion, I see Katniss and Gale kissing and then watch in horror as I tear them both apart with my bare hands.

The tracker jacker venom so successfully targets the place where fear hides in my brain that when it finally works its way out of my system, I'm too petrified to move for hours. I just lie there, my heart racing, waiting for a new horror to emerge. When I do eventually go to get up, I quickly discover that I can't anyway. The pain in my leg where Cato cut me is far, far beyond anything I've experienced before. It makes the burn on my chest feel like a scratch. Each time I move any part of my body, the agony is so severe that I either vomit or pass out. I soon realise that I'm not going anywhere. It may not matter much. With my leg the way it is, I'm pretty sure I don't have long to live anyway. If I don't bleed to death, infection will take me eventually. Nonetheless, I'd prefer not to die at the hands of a vengeful Cato, so I need to at least try to make myself hidden.

Apparently the stream that I saw just before passing out was not a hallucination, although, the water has now returned to a normal colour. Looking around, I can see plenty of materials within arm's reach that will be useful in making a decent camouflage. I do my best to bury myself beneath some small branches and leaves, using mud from the stream to hold everything together. Once the bulk of my body is covered, I get to work on camouflaging my face and arms using mud mixed with torn bark, roots, and dead leaves. I try to make my skin match the floor of the woods that surround me. The whole process takes a few hours, but by the time I'm done, I feel fairly certain that I'm well hidden from anyone who might pass by. Exhausted, I fall back into a deep sleep.

I awaken as the temperature drops in the early evening. This time, the fogginess in my head has lifted a little and some clarity has returned to my mind. The stiffness of my limbs and the sticky dry feeling in my mouth tells me that, before this morning at least, I'd probably been out to it for a few days. There's no way of working out just how long it's been and what I've missed. I don't know who survived the tracker jacker attack or who might have been killed since. Based on my hazy recollections of seeing Katniss hovering on the ground next to Glimmer's body, she had most likely been stung, but I couldn't see any obvious signs of where the venom had penetrated her skin, so perhaps it was just the one bite. She's a lot smaller than me though, and one or two stings could potentially deliver enough poison to kill her. And even if she did survive, what happened after that? Did Cato wake up and track her down? What about the other Careers? Were they well enough to pursue her?

Then I remember the bow and arrows. Katniss had them in her hands when she ran off into the woods. As long as she was reasonably lucid and stable, she'd stand a pretty good chance of being able to fight off any attackers. Who knows? Perhaps by now Katniss has even thinned the field out and is now on the hunt for me. This realisation gives me a new hope to cling to.

The sudden sound of the anthem gives me a start. I'd almost forgotten to expect it. To my surprise, it's Marvel who appears first. He must have survived the tracker jacker attack after all. I wonder how he died. At this late stage in the Games, it's possible that the Careers have begun to turn on each other. But it could equally be Thresh, if he's still alive, or maybe even Katniss.

I'm saddened to find that the second and final face to appear in the sky belongs to Rue. Little Rue. She had done so well to make it this far. I suppose in the end it doesn't really matter how long you survive for. If you're not the winner, you're going to die sometime and Rue never really stood a chance of making it until the end. I hope her death was quick at least. The Capitol seal shines again before fading out. My mind soon follows.

The next morning brings distress. It's a few hours into the day by the time I wake and the warm sun is beating down on me. My head throbs and screams at me for hydration. The surface of my tongue is like sandpaper. I tilt my head and look around for options. I'm only about a metre from the stream, but it may as well be a mile. Even the slightest movement of my leg still causes so much agony that I'm unable to maintain consciousness. I don't know how many days I'd been out for, but I know that I won't survive much longer without water. Perhaps another day. Or maybe even just a few hours under the heat of the sun. Dehydration. After all this, I can't believe I'm going to die from simple lack of water.

But then I realise, Haymitch! He could get water down to me in an instant using funds from my sponsors. Surely there have been people willing to bet on me. All Haymitch would have to do is give the word and a small silver parachute would come floating down from the sky caring a flask of fresh water. I haven't asked for anything yet and water should be an affordable gift.

I clear my dry throat and open my mouth to speak in a voice as loud as I dare. "Haymitch. Water, please." And then I wait. After a few minutes, I try again. "I need water." Still no response. Maybe it takes a while to organise, I reassure myself.

But a few hours pass and I realise it's not coming. How could it be that Haymitch is not sending me water? It's obvious that I can't get to the stream without passing out. Have I deluded myself into thinking that I've actually had sponsors this whole time? No, that doesn't make sense. My popularity with the crowd was unmistakable, even if misdirected. Haymitch could send water if he wanted to, but he's refusing.

It leaves me with just one obvious conclusion. Haymitch is not giving me what I need because there is no point. He doesn't want to waste money on a dying tribute. He's given up on me, just like my mother did before the Games even began. I try to tell myself that it's for the best. With me out of the picture, Haymitch can concentrate his efforts and direct sponsorship funding toward Katniss. Still, his refusal to help makes me feel utterly miserable. Rejected, even. I at least thought that Haymitch cared enough about me that he wouldn't let me die of thirst. Feeling depressed, I give up and allow sleep to take me once more.

I am awakened in the early evening by an unexpected noise. Trumpets. It's a sound that's rarely heard in the Games. When used, it is followed by an announcement of some sort. Usually to call us to a feast when food is scarce and there are just a few tributes left. It's a ploy from the Gamemakers to bring us together for a fight in the remaining stages of the Games. Sometimes there's a full banquet, at other times it's a single loaf of stale bread. Whatever the case this time, it's irrelevant for me. I'm not going anywhere.

But when Claudius Templesmith's voice booms overhead, he's not inviting us to a feast. No, it's something very different. He congratulates the six of us who still remain and then is saying something about a rule change. A rule change! Am I still mad from the tracker jacker venom? How can there be a rule change in a game where there are no rules?

"Under the new rule, both tributes from the same districts will be declared winners if they are the last two alive." Claudius pauses. Apparently we are not getting it, so he repeats, "Two tributes can win this year, so long as they are from the same district."

His words sink in. Two victors. Both of us can win. Both Katniss and I can live!


	16. Chapter 16

**Part III**

" **THE VICTOR"**

 **Chapter 16**

I'm stunned. Such a thing is completely unheard of. A surge of joy flares inside me. It can only mean one thing. Katniss is alive! The love story we've depicted must have captured the hearts of the Capitol people and there has been a push to allow us both to survive so that our love can live on. It's the only explanation for why the Gamemakers would have approved such an unprecedented change to the rules. For the first time since the Games began, I actually have some hope of survival. I might not have to die!

But before the elation of the moment takes hold, I'm overcome with a sense of dread and guilt as I'm hit with the reality of what could happen next. What if Katniss actually does try to find me? I can't protect her now. I am just a liability. Someone that she'll need to take care of. If she is with me, she'll have to split her attention protecting the both of us, putting her own life in danger.

Maybe she won't come. She is smart enough to know that her chances of survival are better when acting alone, even without being aware that I'm injured. And if she did find me, she'd take one look at the state I'm in and either leave me for dead or perhaps, mercifully, finish me off. But even as I say these things to myself, I know that they are not true. Katniss may not be the most sentimental of people, but she's not the kind of person who would leave an ally to die, either. And whether we like it or not, we have just officially been made allies.

I want to curse up at the sky. To yell at the Gamemakers for further raising the risk to Katniss's life, just when her chances of survival were looking up. But it won't do any good. Now that I'm back in the Games, I need to think about appealing to sponsors once again, and criticising the rule change is not exactly the best way to go about it. So instead, I peer up toward the light of the moon and whisper Katniss's name.

I don't sleep at all that night. My mind is racing. Partly with excitement and anticipation at the thought of Katniss coming to find me. Partly with terror about would happen if she does. I try to force my attention onto other things. I think of the remaining tributes. What do they make of the new rule? I haven't been able to keep track of who is still alive, but I remember Claudius Templesmith saying that there are six of us left. At most, there's only one other district pair left, Cato and Clove. If they are both still alive, they will be celebrating the change of rule. And unlike Katniss and I, they could both be fit and able-bodied. Perhaps they were still even working as a team when the announcement was made, meaning they won't need to waste time locating one another before going on the hunt. Their next move will be to target us, knowing the exact reason why the Gamemakers made such a change. Hopefully they will come after me and not Katniss.

It's early morning by the time sleep finally comes again. I spend the next few hours dozing on and off. The intense heat of the sun beats down on me, scorching my skin. It seems like an unusually hot day, but at the same time, there's a deep chill in the core of my body. Fever. My body is attempting to fight off what is inevitable at this point. The infection has taken hold of my body. It will kill me if the dehydration doesn't get me first. As I lie there, I swing between bouts of shivering and sweating. Everything starts to become so hazy that I'm barely able to tell the difference between being asleep or awake, conscious or unconscious. So when I hear the sound of my own name, I simply assume that I must be still dreaming.

"Peeta," I hear it once more. This time, I sure I'm awake. I must be delusional from the fever, I tell myself. Even so, I continue to listen intently, hoping to hear something more.

My heart sinks again when I hear them. Several mockingjays calling out a two-toned note that somehow resembles my name. Of course it wasn't her. I must be either really desperate or really sick to be hearing my name in the songs of birds. Probably a little of both. I soberly remind myself that I'm here alone. Dying alone.

But a few moments later, I hear another sound, a gentle crunch on the ground just a few metres away. A subtle, yet unmistakable sound of a human footstep. It seems so real. I listen harder than I've ever listened in my life. My whole body poised to receive the slightest of sounds. Crunch. A second step. It is real! Now I'm sure of it. It's the sound of someone carefully moving along the stream just behind me.

Suddenly I'm scared that it's Cato and Clove, come to finish me off. I'm gripped by fear once more as my mind is flooded with images of what they will do to me if I'm discovered. I hold my breath and lay utterly still, my heart thudding loudly in my chest. But another minute passes and there is nothing more. I have either gone completely mad or they have stopped moving. Perhaps Cato and Clove thought they were overheard and now fear they are targets for attack. But that does not fit the image of the fearless pair from District 2. Even if they are scared of an ambush from Katniss, they lack the skill to move so quietly across the ground.

No, there's only one person I know with that particular talent. I dare to tilt my head slightly and peer upwards. My heart leaps and I have to stop myself from calling out. Katniss is standing crouched over, barely even a metre away from me. Her determined face is looking as beautiful as it always has, albeit a little grubby.

I'm so deliriously pleased to see her that all thoughts of wanting her not to track me down vanish, and I'm overcome with a sense of playfulness. I silently clear my throat and summon the strength to speak. "You here to finish me off, sweetheart?"

"Peeta," she whispers again in a low voice. "Where are you?"

I lay still, my eyes closed. I want to let her try to find me underneath the mud and leaves. I feel her creep forward until she is standing almost right on top of me.

"Well, don't step on me," I croak. She jumps back and pauses for a few moments, still unable to make me out. Finally, I open my eyes to break the camouflage. She sees me immediately and gasps. I laugh, delighted with how effectively I've concealed myself. I experience a moment of joy in getting to meet her eyes once more, something I thought I'd never do again. She stares back at me in stunned surprise, her mouth hanging open. Then her eyes suddenly narrow.

"Close your eyes again," she orders. I obey, closing my mouth as well. She kneels down beside me, causing my heart to sprint.

"I guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off," she says. I open my eyes again to see her smiling warmly at me.

"Yes, frosting," I say. "The final defence of the dying."

"You're not going to die," she retorts.

"Says who?" I squeeze out.

"Says me. We're on the same team now, you know," she says, confirming my fears that she is in fact here to risk her life in an attempt to save mine. I want to tell her to leave me. That she must go so that she has a better chance of survival. But I can't bring myself to do it. Perhaps it's because I'm dying, but right now, I just want her close. I don't care about anything else.

"So I heard. Nice of you to find what's left of me," I say in a jagged voice. She pulls out a water bottle from her orange backpack and holds it up to my lips. I sip it slowly, letting the cool water trickle down my throat.

"Did Cato cut you?" she asks.

"Left leg. Up high." I answer.

She frowns. "Let's get you into the stream, wash you off so I can see what kind of wounds you have."

Treating my wounds seems so unimportant now, trivial even. The only thing that matters to me is that Katniss and I are together. The animosity she seemed to have for me back at the Training Centre feels so long ago now. And even further away is our life back in District 12. I don't want to waste any more time hiding my feelings from her. This is the last opportunity I have to be real with her, and I need it to mean something.

My feelings for Katniss surge. I have the urge to pull her down close to kiss her. But I know I can't. Any affection offered at this point needs to start with her. But perhaps I can give her a little nudge in the right direction. After all, she still probably doubts that there is any truth behind my declared feelings for her. "Lean down a minute first," I say. "Need to tell you something." I can't let the audience hear what I'm about to say. She draws close to me and puts her ear inch from my lips. My heart beats hard. "Remember, we're madly in love, so it's all right to kiss me any time you feel like it," I whisper softly.

She jerks her head back sharply and lets out a small, uncomfortable laugh. "Thanks, I'll keep it in mind."

It's an ambiguous response, but it's probably not a great sign. Perhaps she took it at face value, assuming that I'm still just playing the romance up for the audience. She knows just as well as I do that our love affair is the reason why we now both have a shot at making it out alive. On the other hand, she might believe that I really am in love with her and that this is my way of letting her know. If this is the case though, her reaction suggests that she does not share any of the same feelings.

Refusing to give anything else away, Katniss simply gets to work on helping me into the stream. She places both hands beneath my shoulders and tries to haul me into a sitting position. But I'm too heavy and I lack the strength to hold myself upright. I'm so weak that the best I can do is not resist. Seeing the futility of her efforts, she attempts to drag me toward the stream. She has a little more success using this method, but I can't help but cry out each time she tugs at my body. She stops and just looks at me, clearly unsure of what to do. I'm still half a metre from the edge of the water but I'm making too much noise to continue. Anyone nearby would be instantly alerted to our location.

"Look, Peeta, I'm going to roll you into the stream. It's very shallow here, okay?" she says.

"Excellent," I say, sounding more sarcastic than I intended.

She crouches down on the other side of me and places her hands at my side. "On three," she says. "One, two, three." I brace myself and try to control the groan that escapes my mouth as my body turns. The pain in my leg seems to shoot through my whole body, and I'm scared I will throw up again. I grit my teeth and don't fight the streams of tears that trickle down my cheeks. After one roll, I'm still only at the bank of the stream.

Perhaps seeing the blood drained from my face, she tells me, "Okay, change of plans. I'm not going to put you all the way in."

"No more rolling?" I ask.

"That is all done. Let's get you cleaned up. Keep an eye on the woods for me, okay?" she says tenderly.

She begins by filling a water bottle in the stream, leaving a second bottle and a water skin to fill up while she gently pours the rest over my body. My whole body tightens from the pain of the water hitting my wounds. But I press my lips together hard to stop myself from making any more noise.

After washing away a coat of mud and leaves, Katniss carefully unzips my jacket, unbuttons my shirt, and inches them off. Next she tries to remove my undershirt, but the burn on my chest has started to heal into the fabric and my skins tears as she tries to pull the shirt free. She ends up having to use a large knife to cut parts of the material loose. With my chest now bare, her eyes trace over the wounds coving my upper body. There's the burn from the log, four tracker jacker stings, and a whole lot of cuts and bruises from I can't even remember what.

Katniss decides to prop me up by leaning me against a nearby rock. We manage this feat together with only a little groaning on my part. She continues to remove the mud and grime, gently rubbing her hands over my face and through my hair as she pours water over me. I try to catch her eyes while she works but she's focused on getting the job done.

Next, she begins to treat the tracker jacker wounds, digging the stingers out with her fingernails and, on one occasion, with the tip of her knife. It's unbelievably painful, but I manage to tolerate it in silence. She grabs some leaves from a nearby tree, chews them up and places them over the tracker jacker lumps. It brings instant relief. I gaze at her in admiration of her remarkable ability to heal.

It's not surprising that Katniss is good at medicine. Her mother is the only doctor in District 12. Of course, she's not really a doctor. There's no training for that sort of thing, and even if there was, no one would be able to afford to see a doctor anyway. Katniss's mother is more of an apothecary healer. My father told me that she used to run an apothecary shop right around the corner from our bakery. That was before she fell in love with a minor and moved to the Seam.

Katniss washes my clothes in the stream and sets them out to dry on some nearby boulders. Next, she pulls out a jar of ointment from her bag and applies it to the burn on my chest. The cream calms and soothes my skin in an instant. This is good Capitol medicine, very expensive stuff. The jar is no doubt a gift from sponsors following the fireball episode, but does Katniss have such generous sponsors or has she managed to scavenge it some other way?

Noticing the warmth of my skin, Katniss hands me a couple of fever pills from a first aid kit in her bag. "Swallow these," she instructs. I do so without hesitation. "You must be hungry," she says.

"Not really. It's funny, I haven't been hungry for days," I say.

"Really?" she says, furrowing her brow in a look of deep concern. She insists that I try some bird meat called, groosling, but I'm so nauseated by the smell that I have to turn away to avoid being sick. "Peeta, we need to get some food into you," she says.

"It'll just come right back up," I tell her. Refusing to let me off easily, she urges me to eat some dried apple. I manage to get a few pieces down by eating in tiny bites. "Thanks. I'm much better, really." I lie. But the pain and the nausea have sucked away what little energy I had. "Can I sleep now, Katniss?"

"Soon," she promises. "I need to look at your leg first." I want to beg her not to, but it won't do any good. She needs to see it for herself. Once she does, any hope she had of keeping me alive will vanish. Skilled healer or not, there's nothing she'll be able to do for my leg. The moment of levity we share now will be gone and she'll have to decide whether to leave me to die or put an end to my suffering.

Trying to be gentle, she pulls off my boots and socks before slowly inching my trousers down. I say _trying_ to be gentle, because she's only slightly gentler than a butcher skinning a rabbit. I have to hold my breath to avoid crying out in pain.

I haven't seen the wound since the day I received it, and that was when I was under the influence of the tracker jacker toxins. Fortunately, I can't see bone now like I did before, but that might only be because the swelling makes it impossible to tell how deep the wound is. It's a long gash that goes diagonally across my thigh, extending almost the entire length. The whole thing oozes blood and pus, and there's a strong stench that registers on Katniss's face.

"Pretty awful, huh?" I say, watching her closely.

"So – so," she lies, acting as if it's no big deal. "You should see some of the people they bring to my mother from the mines."

She must have seen some pretty bad wounds throughout her life. Her mother treats all the men who are injured in the mines. From collapsing mine shafts, to respiratory conditions, to mine explosions. You might think this would give me some assurance that Katniss could heal my leg. But the opposite is true. She knows a bad wound when she sees one, and despite the words that come out of her mouth, it's obvious that this particular injury is way beyond her.

"First thing is to clean it well," she says with forced confidence. She pulls out a piece of square plastic from her bag and slides it carefully under my legs to keep me out of the accumulating mound of mud beneath me. She then rinses the rest of the gunk off my lower half and addresses the remaining burns and the other tracker jacker sting on my legs.

When finally there's nothing else left to treat, she returns her attention to the gaping wound in my thigh. "Why don't we give it some air and then..." she trails off, clearly uncertain.

"And then you'll patch it up?" I suggest.

"That's right. In the meantime, you eat these," she instructs, placing a few dried pear halves in my hand. I reluctantly nibble at the edges while she washes the rest of my clothes in the stream. Once she has laid them out to dry, she rummages through the contents of her backpack once more, looking for something that might be of use in treating my leg. She comes up empty.

Katniss returns to my side, chewing some more of the medicinal leaves. "We're going to have to experiment some," she tells me and presses a few of the leaves into my swollen leg. I bite my bottom lip hard, trying to control the flow of tears escaping from the corners of my eyes. I don't mind if she sees me cry, but I want to reassure her that she is doing a good job. After all, she's putting her life in great danger by being here with me.

I wonder why she's doing it. It would be very clear to her by now that I'm not exactly a useful ally. She'll stand a much better chance of surviving without having me around to care for. And even if I do get better, and that's a very big if, what can I really offer in the way of help? I'm just another body to feed, another person to hide. Plus Katniss preferred to work alone even before coming into the arena. Maybe she feels uncomfortable about letting me die without trying to help. Perhaps she knows that the only merciful thing to do is to kill me but doesn't want to do it herself. Or maybe she doesn't want to face District 12 as the victor who allowed her fellow tribute to die. Or maybe… I try to suppress a flicker of hope. Maybe she really does care about me.

"Katniss?" I ask. She meets my gaze with a look of sympathy. I mouth the words. "How about that kiss?"

She bursts out laughing. Okay, I can see that attending to a festering, pus-filled wound is probably not the ideal time for romance.

"Something wrong?" I ask innocently.

"I… I'm no good at this. I'm not my mother. I have no idea what I'm doing and I hate pus!" she spits out. "Euh!" she groans, rinsing away the blood and pus from the leaves. "Euuuuh!" she lets out again as she applies a second round of leaves. I'm actually somewhat surprised to see her struggle like this. Aside from the patients her mother brings in, she must be fairly accustomed to seeing gruesome things from her regular hunts in the woods.

"How do you hunt?" I ask.

"Trust me, killing things is much easier than this," she replies. "Although, for all I know, I'm killing you."

"Can you speed it up a little?" I joke.

"No. Shut up your pears," she retorts.

After the third application of the leaves, the swelling seems to have gone down a touch and Katniss looks more at ease.

"What next, Dr Everdeen?" I ask.

"Maybe I'll put some of the burn ointment on it. I think it helps with infection anyway," she says. "And wrap it up?" The lack of confidence she has in managing the wound is obvious. But what else can she do, really? It at least needs stitches or maybe even some of the fancy glue that they have in the Capitol. Out here in the Arena, we have to make do with what's available.

Once she has finished carefully binding my leg with a white cotton bandage, it looks much better and I feel like things are a little more under control. Katniss looks more relaxed too. She pulls out a second backpack and holds it up to me. "Here, cover yourself with this and I'll wash your shorts."

"Oh, I don't care if you see me," I tell her.

"You're just like the rest of my family," she protests. "I care, all right?"

This makes me smile. With all her tough demeanour, I would never have thought she'd be bothered by a bit of nakedness. If anyone should be embarrassed, it's me. But I don't care really. And anyway, the Gamemakers will blur out all the important bits so that at least the whole nation won't see me.

With her head turned away, I inch my shorts off and throw them into the stream in front of her. "You know, you're kind of squeamish for such a lethal person," I say. "I wish I'd let you give Haymitch a shower after all."

Katniss wrinkles her nose at the thought. "What's he sent you so far?" she asks.

"Not a thing," I reply, thinking back to my plea for help just the day before. And then it hits me. She'd only be asking if she received a sponsorship gift herself. "Why, did you get something?"

She looks down, as if embarrassed. "Burn medicine." She pauses. "Oh, and some bread."

Even though Haymitch was in on the plan to keep Katniss alive and not me, I can't help feeling a little hurt. He was watching me die of thirst and didn't do a thing to relieve my suffering. "I always knew you were his favourite," I say.

"Please, he can't stand being in the same room with me," she defends.

"Because you're just alike," I mutter. I regret this comment immediately. It's not right to take my feelings toward Haymitch out on Katniss. Thankfully, she lets it go without a word.

It isn't until Katniss is gently shaking me awake that I realise that I had gone to sleep.

"Peeta, we've got to go now," she says. It's now late-afternoon.

"Go?" I question. Surely it's not really possible for me to go anywhere at this point. "Go where?"

"Away from here. Downstream, maybe. Somewhere we can hide you until you're stronger," she tells me. I can't fathom the idea of walking and I don't think Katniss is strong enough to carry me. But she's right, there's no cover here and there's nothing to stop the other tributes from finding us. We have to at least try.

Together we ease my almost dry clothes back on, leaving my feet bare so I can move in the stream. Katniss hauls me upright, but as soon as I put the slightest bit of weight on my leg, my whole body weakens and I almost collapse from the pain.

"Come on. You can do this," Katniss assures me. No, I can't, I think to myself. But we work hard together and I make it about fifty metres downstream. Then the exertion gets too much for me and I almost black out.

Seeing the look on my face, Katniss helps me down onto the bank, pushes my head between my knees and pats my back. Not wanting to leave us both exposed for long, I tell Katniss that I'm fine after just a few minutes rest. She helps me up again and, taking most of my weight, guides me up the bank twenty metres or so to the opening of a small cave. By the time we get there, I'm panting, shivering uncontrollably, and trying hard to stop myself from bringing up the few bits of food I'd eaten earlier. She sits me at the entrance while she makes a bed of pine needles on the cave floor. Next, she coaxes me into a sleeping bag and makes me swallow a few more fever pills.

I fix my eyes on her as she works to conceal the entrance to the cave. Her hair is in a thick braid that hangs loosely over her right shoulder. Even with the dirt, cuts, and bruises, she is still somehow as alluring as ever. I regret that after so many years, I never managed to tell her how I feel. And now I'm about to die and she still thinks that my love for her is nothing more than a ploy to stay alive. I'm running out of time to convince her that my feelings are real, that I've loved her since the first day I laid eyes on her.

"Katniss," I say. She comes over, kneels down beside me, and brushes the hair from my eyes. "Thanks for finding me."

"You would have found me too if you could," she says gently.

"Yes. Look, if I don't make it back –" I start.

"Don't talk like that," she snaps, cutting me off. "I didn't drain all that pus for nothing."

"I know but just in case I don't –" I try to continue but she interrupts again.

"No Peeta, I don't even want to discuss it," she says firmly, placing her fingers on my lips to silence me.

I press. "But I –"

Then, without warning, she leans forward and kisses me on the lips. The effort to silence me couldn't be more effective. Whatever it was I wanted to tell her washes away. All that exists is Katniss, me, and the sensation of our lips pressed together. The feeling is electric, like vault running through my body, bringing it back to life.

The moment is brief, and as she pulls back, I'm suddenly aware that the kiss could have meant something different for her. It might have just been a performance for the cameras. Or maybe it was an act of pity for me. I did ask for a kiss after all. But I can't help clinging to the hope that there might have been something more to it as well.

She tenderly pulls the edges of my sleeping bag up around me. "You're not going to die. I forbid it. All right?"

"All right," I whisper, all the fight has gone out of me. I want nothing more than to soak up the pure delight of the moment. To stay in it for as long as I can. But I'm so drained from the exertion from making it up to the cave that it's not long until I fall asleep.

Pain. My head throbs. Back of my throat feels torn. Hot like a furnace. A slow steady pounding settles in behind my eyes. I dare to take in a breath and only snatch the slightest gasp.

Softness on my lips, that's not right. Everything is pain, everything hurts. The soft feeling presses, insistent but gentle. It doesn't fit. It doesn't make sense. Katniss! Katniss kissed me! Katniss is kissing me! I almost don't open my eyes out of fear that this dream will end but I can't help myself, what if it's real?

I let my gritty eyelids open and gaze up at the angel is in front of me. A little smile on her perfect lips and her forehead pinched with concern.

She holds up a small metal pot. "Peeta, look what Haymitch has sent you."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Inside the pot is a hot broth. Katniss shuffles over to settle beside me, dips a spoon in, and holds it up to my lips. My stomach churns, and I reflexively turn away.

"Just try it," she says gently. I refuse, certain that I won't be able to keep it down. "Come on Peeta, please," she begs.

"I can't," I tell her.

"Sure you can, just put it in your mouth and swallow. Look, you don't even have to do that, I'm putting it in your mouth for you." I hesitate, but then open my mouth slightly and let her tip some of it in. "There, that wasn't so bad was it?" she says. But I have to fight my body to swallow it. She holds up another spoonful, and I press my lips together.

"Look, you need to eat this, Peeta," she says, the frustration growing in her voice. "I came here to be your ally. Do you want me to stay here with you or do you want me to leave you to die on your own?"

The truth is, of course, that I want her to have the best chance of survival, which means she should go off on her own. But I cannot stand the thought of her leaving. Not now that I felt her lips pressed against mine. "I want you to stay," I tell her.

"Right, then you have to eat your soup," she says firmly. I try hard and manage a few more spoonfuls before I pull back again.

Katniss tries a different approach. "Peeta, she says softly, "If you won't eat it for yourself, then eat it for me."

She has got me there. I guess if I'm willing to die for her, I'm willing to try and stay alive for her too. "I'll do anything for you, Katniss," I whisper back.

"Good, then you'll have your soup."

"How about another kiss first?" I ask with a mischievous grin. "You know, to give me the strength to eat."

"How about you eat another three spoonfuls and then you get your kiss," she bargains. I take in the next three spoonfuls without complaint. As promised, she rewards me with a kiss, holding it long enough for me to wrap my arms around her neck.

She breaks away. "Right, another three now," she instructs. After I swallow the third, she kisses me once more. The playful affection between us opens up a kind of happiness within me that I never knew existed. A warm, contented feeling that runs throughout my whole body. The wound in my leg was almost worth getting just to have these precious moments with Katniss.

We continue the exchange of soup for kisses until the pot is empty. Then Katniss helps me lay back down and encourages me to sleep. This, at least, is something I can do with ease.

Sometime later, I wake in a half dream state to find Katniss snuggled up against me inside the sleeping bag. It has grown dark outside and even though I'm still burning with fever, I can detect a sharp chill in the night air. I know she probably slipped into the bag for warmth, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy having her nestled into my side. Throughout the night, she places cool strips of wet bandage over my forehead, replacing them when they become warm and dry out.

I wake in the early morning to find I'm alone in the sleeping bag. I look around the cave trying to make her out. "Katniss?" No answer. I start to panic. When did she leave? What could she have gone to do? Could a cannon have fired in the night without me waking to hear it? My head is spinning as I try to figure out what to do. I know that even if I could summon the strength to crawl out of the cave, there's nothing much I could do. I'm in no state to go after her and certainly not to fight anyone off. Ignoring this logic, I fight my body to get up.

Just as I make it to my knees, Katniss reappears in the entrance of the cave. "I woke up and you were gone," I say, panting. "I was worried about you."

She laughs a little as she comes over to ease me back down. "You were worried about me? Have you taken a look at yourself lately?" But the fear of losing her is still too real for joking.

"I thought Cato and Clove might have found you. They like to hunt at night," I tell her.

"Clove? Which one is that?" she asks.

"The girl from District Two. She is still alive, right?" I ask.

"Yes, there's just them and us and Thresh and Foxface," she says. "That's what I nicknamed the girl from Five."

So Drusa didn't make it then. I wonder if she died in the tracker jacker attack or if something happened to her since.

"How do you feel?" Katniss asks me.

"Better than yesterday," I tell her. "Clean clothes and medicine and a sleeping bag… And you."

Katniss reaches her hand out toward my cheek and I catch it, pressing it on my lips.

She allows it to linger there for a few moments and then pulls it back. "No more kisses for you until you've eaten," she says. She props me up against the cave wall and feeds me a mush of berries from the pot. I manage to get this down but I'm still unable to stomach the groosling when she offers it to me again.

Katniss looks exhausted. There are dark circles under her eyes and she seems to be struggling to keep them open. "You didn't sleep," I say.

"I'm alright," she lies.

"Sleep now. I'll keep watch. I'll wake you if anything happens," I tell her. She hesitates. "Katniss, you can't stay up forever."

She considers this for a moment, but she knows I'm right and soon concedes. "All right," she says. "But just for a few hours. Then you wake me." I agree, and she smooths out the sleeping bag before lying down with a loaded bow in hand. I position myself beside her, sitting half upright against the wall, and fixate my eyes on the cave's entrance. Katniss still looks uneasy.

"Go to sleep," I say softly. I brush the loose strands of hair from her face. This seems to put her ease so I continue stroking her hair gently until she drifts off to sleep.

Several hours pass. I know she told me to wake her, but I don't see the point. No one is going to come for us in the middle of the day. Plus, she looks so peaceful lying there, and she clearly needs the sleep anyway. Okay, and maybe I'm just enjoying this too much. The love of my life is sleeping by my side while I run my fingers through her silky hair. I'd be happy to stay in this moment forever.

Somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, she begins to stir. She sits straight up. "Peeta, you were supposed to wake me after a couple of hours," she says, irritated.

"For what? Nothing's going on here," I tell her. "Besides, I like watching you sleep. You don't scowl. Improves your looks a lot."

Predictably, this remark brings on a scowl and I give her a satisfied grin. Ignoring me, she reaches out to touch my cheek, not as a romantic gesture, but to check my temperature. Her hand feels ice cold against my skin, indicating that my fever remains high. I tell her that I've been drinking water, but to be honest, I've only managed a few sips today. I think she figures this out too because she stands over me while insisting that I drink first one and then a second litre of water. She gives me some more fever pills and tends to the cuts, burns, and stings on my body. She then unwraps my leg and inspects the wound.

The first thing I notice is that there is more swelling and the skin is inflamed and tight. There doesn't seem to be any pus but that brings no comfort when I notice the red streaks crawling up my leg. Blood poisoning. I don't know much about it but I do know that it's fatal without proper treatment. There will be nothing in Katniss's bag strong enough to do anything for it. An infection like this will require medicine from the Capitol. Medicine that would be incredibly expensive. All the sponsors combined would not make up enough money to afford it at this late stage in the Games. Gifts go up in price as the Games progress and I don't think medicine like this would have been affordable on day one, let alone now when only six tributes remain.

Still peering at the wound, Katniss says in an unsteady voice, "Well, there's more swelling, but the pus is gone."

"I know what blood poisoning is Katniss," I say. "Even if my mother isn't a healer."

"You're just going to have to outlast the others, Peeta. They'll cure you back at the Capitol when we win," she tries to say reassuringly. I know that the chances of me making it that long are slim to none, but I don't want to discourage her.

"Yes, that's a good plan," I say.

Katniss picks up the empty soup pot. "You have to eat. Keep your strength up," she tells me. "I'm going to make you soup."

"Don't light a fire," I say. It's not worth it."

"We'll see," she says. I can see it's not worth arguing the point. She is determined to do things her way and there's nothing I can really do to stop her anyway. She picks up a few bits of food from our supply stack and throws them in the pot before stepping outside and disappearing into the day.

For the first time since Katniss found me, I begin to seriously contemplate dying. How long do I have, I wonder. Hours? A day? I'm pretty sure I won't last more than a couple of days, and that's if the other tributes don't find us. Plus the audience must be starting to get a little bored now. There have been no deaths in a while and I doubt the romance between Katniss and I will be enough to keep them entertained for much longer. It's only a matter of time before the Gamemakers will force us into another confrontation. I suppose Cato and Thresh could be hunting each other down, giving the audience a good show. That might buy us a day or so. But I probably don't have a day left in me anyway.

Before Katniss came along, I had made peace with dying. I mean, I never really intended to come out of the Games alive anyway. But now that she's here and that there is a faint hope that we might both survive, accepting my death seems completely unbearable. How can I be okay with leaving this world now? Katniss is here with me. I have felt the touch of her lips against mine. Our breath mingling together. I don't know exactly what it is that's developing between us, but it's something. Something that I don't want to let go of.

I hear Katniss returning and I try to hide my despair as her face appears in the entrance to the cave. She comes over and positions a cool wet cloth on my forehead.

"Do you need anything?" she asks kindly.

"No. Thank you." I say. "Wait, yes. Tell me a story." I have a sudden urge to know everything I can about her. To get the most out of whatever time we have left together.

"A story? What about?" she asks, confused.

"Something happy. Tell me about the happiest day you can remember," I say.

Her brow furrows and she lets out a big sigh. "Did I ever tell you about how I got Prim's goat?" I shake my head.

She leans back on the rock behind her and settles in to recount the story. "It was Prim's birthday and I had just sold a silver locket of my mother's. I wanted to use the money to buy something special for Prim. Gale and I were in the market in the square so that I could buy dress materials. As I was running my fingers over a length of thick blue cotton cloth, something caught my eye. It was a goat, a white one with black patches, lying down in a cart. Some creature, probably a dog, had mauled her shoulder and infection had set in. It was bad; the Goat Man, that's what everyone called the old man who owns the herd of goats in District 12, had to hold her up to milk her. But I thought I knew someone who could fix it.

A nanny goat is a fantastic investment if you can get your hands on one. The Meadow near our house is a perfect feeding place, and they give four litres of milk a day. To drink, to make into cheese, to sell. And Prim would love it.

"Gale," I whispered. "I want that goat for Prim."

"She's hurt pretty bad," said Gale. "We'd better take a closer look." We went over and bought a cup of milk to share, then stood over the goat as if idly curious.

"Let her be," said the man.

"Just looking," said Gale.

"Well, look fast. She goes to the butcher soon. Hardly anyone will buy her milk, and then only pay half price," said the man.

"What's the butcher giving for her?" I asked.

The man shrugged. "Hang around and see." I turned and saw Rooba coming across the square towards us. "Lucky thing you showed up," said the Goat Man when she arrived. "Girl's got her eye on your goat."

"Not if she's spoken for," I said carelessly.

Rooba looked me up and down, then frowned at the goat. "She's not. Look at that shoulder. Bet you half the carcass will be too rotten for even sausage."

"What?" said the Goat Man. "We had a deal."

"We had a deal on an animal with a few teeth marks. Not that thing. Sell her to the girl if she is stupid enough to take her," said Rooba. As she marched off, I caught her wink.

The Goat Man was mad, but he still wanted that goat off his hands. It took us half an hour to agree on the price. Quite a crowd had gathered by then to hand out opinions. It was an excellent deal if the goat lived; I'd been robbed if she died. People took sides in the argument, but I took the goat.

Gale offered to carry her. I think he wanted to see the look on Prim's face as much as I did. I even bought a pink ribbon and tied it around the goat's neck. Then we hurried back to my house.

You should have seen Prim's reaction when we walked in with the goat. She was so excited and started crying and laughing all once. My mother was less sure, seeing the injury, but the pair of them went to work on it, grinding up herbs and coaxing brews down the animal's throat.

"They sound like you," I say. Katniss looks at me, a little startled as if she'd forgotten I was still here.

"Oh, no, Peeta. They work magic. That thing couldn't have died if it tried." Then her eyes widen at me, realising what she just said.

"Don't worry. I'm not trying," I reassure her. "Finish the story."

"Well, that's it. Only I remember that night, Prim insisted on sleeping with it on a blanket next to the fire. And just before they drifted off, the goat licked her cheek, like it was giving her a goodnight kiss or something," she says. "It was already mad about her."

"Was it still wearing the pink ribbon?" I ask.

"I think so," she says. "Why?"

"I'm just trying to get a picture," I say. "I can see why that day made you happy."

"Well, I knew that goat would be a little gold mine," she says.

"Yes, of course I was referring to that, not the lasting joy you gave the sister you love so much you took her place in the reaping," I say drily. She is so reluctant to divulge anything personal, anything real about herself.

"The goat _has_ paid for itself. Several times over," she says in a superior tone.

"Well, it wouldn't dare do anything else after you saved its life," I say. "I intend to do the same thing."

"Really? What did you cost me again?" she asks.

"A lot of trouble. Don't worry. You'll get it all back," I say. In my mind, I begin to fantasise about all the things I would do for her if I actually made it out of here alive. Delivering freshly baked bread to her bedside every morning, serving her intricately decorated cupcakes in the afternoons, soothing her to sleep with gentle hair strokes every night.

"You're not making any sense," she says, leaning over to place her hand on my forehead. It still feels cold against my skin. "You're a little cooler, though," she says, unconvincingly.

The sound of the trumpets playing gives both of us a start. Katniss darts over toward the mouth of the cave to hear Claudius Templesmith giving an announcement. It's an invitation to a feast. An enticing offer engineered to draw us together for a final showdown. But it's not of much interest to us. We already have food, and Katniss is easily able to hunt for more if we need it.

As if he can read our thoughts, Claudius Templesmith then adds, "Now hold on. Some of you may already be declining my invitation. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately."

The medicine for my leg, I think.

"Each of you will find that something in a backpack marked with your district number at the front of the Cornucopia at dawn. Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance." He finishes, and silence fills the air.

Katniss will know exactly what this means. I can already see her contemplating it. Planning out how she will collect my medicine without falling prey to the others. I can't let her go. I would never forgive myself if she didn't make it back, and I cannot die knowing that she was killed trying to save me.

I climb out of my sleeping bag and grab her by the shoulders, "No," I say. "You're not risking your life for me."

"Who said I was?" she says, feigning innocence.

"So you're not going?"

"Of course I'm not going. Give me some credit. Do you think I'm running straight into some free-for-all against Cato and Clove and Thresh? Don't be stupid," she says, helping me back to bed. "Let them fight it out. We'll see who's in the sky tomorrow and figure it out from there."

It's a convincing story, but I don't believe it for a second. "You're such a bad liar, Katniss. I don't know how you've survived this long." I mimic back some of her recent attempts to deceive me. _"I knew that goat would be a little gold mine. You're a little cooler, though. Of course I'm not going."_ I shake my head. "Never gamble at cards. You'll lose your last coin," I tease harshly.

She flushes with anger. "All right, I am going, and you can't stop me!"

"I can follow you. At least partway. I may not make it to the Cornucopia, but if I'm yelling your name, I bet someone can find me. And then I'll be dead for sure," I say.

"You won't get a hundred metres from here on that leg," she protests.

Then I'll drag myself," I say stubbornly. "You go and I'm going, too."

She sits back and considers this for a bit. I've got her cornered. There's no point in her going to the Cornucopia to try to save my life if I make sure I get killed in the process. "What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch you die?" she says. Well, yes, I think to myself. At least she is safe here.

"I won't die. I promise. If you promise not to go," I plead.

It's a silly promise and we both know it, but I haven't left her with many options. She stares back at me for a long while before reluctantly conceding. "Then you'll have to do what I say. Drink your water, wake me when I tell you, and eat every bit of soup, no matter how disgusting it is!"

"Agreed." I'm relieved, but still a little suspicious. Something about her tone suggests that she hasn't completely given up on the idea of going.

Katniss collects the soup from outside and feeds it to me spoon by spoon. It's surprisingly warm and it actually tastes pretty good. I make sure to tell her how delicious it is and eat every last mouthful without resistance.

While she is down at the stream washing-up, I make my plans for the night. I still don't trust that she won't try to sneak off while I'm asleep. I've got to stay awake. It won't be easy. My health is deteriorating and I think the fever pills might make me drowsy. But I'm determined to do it, even if it means I have to poke myself in the leg all night.

Katniss comes back wearing a sweet smile. "I've brought you treat. I found a new patch of berries a little further downstream." She kneels beside me and holds up a spoonful of mushed berries and mint leaves. I open my mouth without hesitation.

The taste is sweet, sickly sweet. My mind draws back to a memory of something similar my mother once gave me when I was sick. "They're very sweet," I say.

"Yes, they're, sugar berries. My mother makes jam from them. Haven't you ever had them before?" she says, poking a second spoonful into my mouth.

"No," I say. "But they taste familiar. Sugar berries?"

"Well, you can't get them in the market much, they only grow wild," she tells me as she delivers another large mouthful.

I've never heard of sugar berries, but I know I've tasted these before. "They're sweet as syrup," I say, swallowing the last mouthful. Syrup! Suddenly I remember. It's sleep syrup! A common remedy used back home that can knock you out for a whole day. She is drugging me! No, I can't let this happen. But Katniss sees the look of recognition on my face and pounces on me, holding her hand firmly over my nose and mouth to stop me from spitting it out. I try to wrestle her off me but I'm too weak. When she eventually releases me, I shove my fingers down my throat, trying to vomit the stuff up. It's no use, the effects of the medicine are already beginning to wash over me and I'm finding it difficult to remain conscious. Helplessly, all I can do is stare up at her in desperation and disbelief. I go under.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

I wake in a confused haze. My head is foggy, like there's actually a cloud of thick mist trawling through my brain cells. I blink my eyes several times in a futile effort to get them to focus. My mouth is dry and my tongue sticky. I try to lift my head but a rush of vertigo forces it back down. Lying on the hard surface, I have just a vague awareness of my surroundings. It's dark, but trickles of bluish-grey light seep in from the walls around me. The air hitting my cheeks is cool, but my body is warm. I go to stretch my arms and legs, which feel stiff and achy from being in one position for too long, but something confines them. It's a sleeping bag. Sleeping bag? My mind registers this oddity. What am I doing in a sleeping bag? Where am I? Nothing is making any sense. I scan the space around me in search of clues and notice a little medical kit resting beside me. It makes me think of Katniss.

"Katniss!" I yell. Everything rushes into my mind all at once. I sit bolt upright and search desperately around. She's here, just a metre away from me, lying awkwardly on the cave floor. I leap over to her, grabbing her shoulders and screaming her name. Her body is limp and lifeless and her face is deathly pale. The blood that has collected in pools on the cave floor is smeared all over her face and neck. No! She can't be dead! She can't be!

My body starts to tremble. I feel sick and my chest tightens. I try to breathe air into my lungs but nothing's getting in. It's as if someone has sucked all the oxygen from the cave. I'm about to be sick when I see her chest move. A gentle rise and fall. She is breathing. She is breathing.

But this information provides only short relief. Taking a moment to look at her now, I find the source of the blood; a frightening gash above her right eyebrow that is continuing to ooze at an alarming rate. The volume of blood on the cave floor is enough to make me afraid that she could be bleed to death if I don't do something about it soon. Perhaps it's already too late and that's why she won't wake up. My heart is racing and I can feel myself beginning to panic. I don't know anything about treating wounds. That's Katniss's domain.

I take a couple of deep breaths, urging my brain to kick in. All I can think to do is apply pressure. My father taught me that. I remember him making a compression bandage after a wood chopping accident. I was about eight at the time. He stepped into the house in the early hours of the morning with blood pouring out a gash in his leg just above the ankle. Everyone in the house was asleep, except for me. I was already up doing the morning baking duties. My father called for me to grab a cotton blanket from the cupboard along with a sharp knife. He cut off strips the blanket and wrapped them tightly around his ankle. I was horrified by the sight of the gaping wound and nearly fainted. But my father stayed quiet and calm the whole time, gently explaining what he was doing while I watched on. The others didn't even wake up.

I reach for the first aid kit and pull out a large roll of bandage. I'm nervous to even touch her head in case I somehow make it worse, but I force myself to continue. Carefully, I wrap the cloth tightly around and around her head and make a little knot to secure it at the end. Blood is already starting to seep through by the time I finish, sending a ripple of fear through my body. She can't afford to lose any more blood. But I don't know what else I can do to treat the wound.

Feeling powerless, I decide to concentrate my efforts on cleaning the rest of her up. I wet a few more of the bandages and wipe the blood from her face, neck, and hands. When it's all done, I start to feel a little more at ease. She no longer looks like a victim of a brutal murder, and I think the bleeding has slowed a little.

It's at this moment when it dawns on me. I feel better, much better. The fever is completely gone and my head no longer aches. I've even been moving around the cave with relative ease. Is it the adrenaline, or… I scramble to remove my trousers and rip the bandage from my leg.

I almost fall over. The swelling has gone way down and there's no trace of blood poisoning! The gash is certainly still there, but it's quite clearly beginning to heal.

She did it! Katniss got the medicine. I look around and find a tiny orange bag marked with the number 12 and a small used needle. She must have administered it before passing out. My heart is overwhelmed with gratitude, and with admiration. The sheer bravery of it. She willingly entered into the territory of a pair of trained killers, knowing that the risk of an encounter was almost certain. It was just for the chance of saving my life. She risked her life for _mine._ That's what I'm supposed to be here to do. Tears begin to well in my eyes. I stare down at her ghostly pale face, "Thank you," I whisper.

But then I remember something else. The sleep syrup! We had a deal that she wouldn't go. She promised! She lied to me and drugged me. How could she do that to me? What if she had died? Or worse, what if she dies now? The idea is unthinkable. Doesn't she understand how much I need her to live? How could she do that to me? Why would she do that to me?

The last question lingers in my mind. Why _would_ she do it? I made it clear that I would rather die than have her go. The chance of her own death was an inch from definite. She had nothing to gain herself by going. Yet she went anyway. It can't just be for fear of retribution from District 12 if she were to return home without having tried to save me. I gave her a way out when I said I'd chase after her and she could have easily taken it. She chose not to.

It only leaves one rational explanation. It is almost undeniable. On some level, Katniss must truly care for me. Maybe she doesn't exactly love me in the same way that I love her, but now I am sure that there are at least some feelings for me that run deep, even if she is not aware of them herself.

I reach out to grab hold of her hand and give her a gentle kiss on the forehead. I'm immediately struck by how cold her skin feels to touch. Maybe blood loss affects your body temperature. Or perhaps it's just from the unusual chill in the night air. I swear the Gamemakers are deliberately messing with the temperatures to make conditions tougher out here. Even though Katniss is wearing my jacket over her own, it's still not enough to keep her warm.

I prepare the sleeping bag and go to remove her boots when I realise they're soaking wet. She must have been in such a hurry to get back that she didn't have time to remove them when she made her way through the stream.

Underneath her sopping wet socks, her feet are ice cold. I lift my shirt and place her feet against my skin while rubbing them with my hands. Once they're dry and some warmth has returned to them, I ease her body into the sleeping bag, pulling it up around her neck.

The sound of the anthem startles me. Peering out the mouth of the cave, I find just one face in the sky, Clove. Did Katniss kill her? Is Clove the one who gave her that gaping wound? It's not hard to imagine it; Clove's knife throwing skills are, I mean, were, extraordinary. Katniss would have been lucky to survive an attack from her.

I try to push thoughts about Clove out of my mind. Even though she was technically the enemy, and even though her survival meant our death, I still can't help feeling… I don't even know. Sad? No, not sad, it's more like a feeling of guilt mixed in with grief. I can't comprehend the idea that this living, breathing person, who was my ally just a few days ago, is now dead. My chest feels tight, like a weight is pressing in on it.

I'm a little disgusted with myself when I realise that I am also disappointed to find that only one tribute didn't survive the feast. That still leaves three, including Cato and Thresh. Maybe they are out hunting each other now. Or maybe they're looking for us. Cato will surely want to avenge Clove's death. Let's hope it's Thresh he's after, and not us.

Boom! A loud crack rips through the sky. At first I think it's a cannon and I whirl around in fright but find Katniss still breathing gently. Then there's another, and another, and I realise it's just the beginnings of a storm. Buckets of rain pour down so abruptly that it's as if someone turned a switch on. And they probably have. In our cave though, the rain doesn't affect us much, so this downpour must be directed at someone else. Still, the rain is heavy, and it's not long before trickles of water start seeping through the cracks above our heads.

Using a piece of square plastic and a few bits of rope from the supply bag, I try to rig up a sort of canopy on the roof that directs the water away from us to a downward sloping corner of the cave. After a few trial and errors, I'm pretty satisfied with it. Hopefully the cracks between the rocks on the floor are large enough to drain the water away as it flows down.

Noticing the small stash of food in the corner, I suddenly find myself feeling ravenous. It's the first time I've had any desire for food since Katniss found me. I grab a chunk of groosling and wolf it down, gulping a full litre of water along with it. I'm onto my third piece before I realise we're getting low on food supplies. But the delicious taste of the fatty white meat almost entirely drowns out any remorse I feel at my greed. I finish it off and resolve not to eat anything more until Katniss wakes up.

The events of the evening have left me feeling weary. Plus I think the sleep syrup hasn't completely worn off yet because my body feels sort of weighty and slow. I decide that there's little point in keeping watch tonight, the others will be hauled up somewhere to shelter themselves from the downpour. And even if someone was hunting us, the poor visibility out there almost completely eliminates the chance of them finding the concealed cave entrance.

I slip into the sleeping bag beside Katniss and lay down. Her skin still feels icy to touch, so I snuggle in close to warm her body with mine. Under different circumstances, this would have been a recipe for a blissful sleep. But my night couldn't be more restless. I wake up dozens of times, terrified that Katniss might have stopped breathing in the night. The only indicator that I've slept at all comes from the intermittent assault of images where Katniss is being chased down by Clove while I just stand by watching, unable to move or protect her. Each time I wake, I reach out for her desperately in the dark to check if she's still alive.

I relieved when the cracks in the cave ceiling finally reveal the initial light of dawn. Eager to leave the night behind me, I slip out of the sleeping bag and prepare to attend to Katniss's head wound. With her still unconscious, I have no way of assessing if she's getting any better or if she's a moment away from death. Dwelling on such things only threatens to cause more distress, so I ignore the thoughts that rage about in my head and push on with removing the blood-soaked bandage. It's difficult to see in the darkness of the cave but it looks as though the bleeding may have almost stopped. That's got to be a good sign, I reassure myself.

The rain has slowed now but it continues to fall steadily. At least we have easy access to fresh water. I position the water bottles beneath an opening in the ceiling and let them fill slowly, taking a few gulps in as they near the top. Katniss's body must be getting dehydrated by now, but there's little I can do about it. I'm sure she and her mother have some way of addressing this problem when they care for unconscious patients at home, but I have neither the knowledge nor the equipment to do anything at all. I feel so helpless, so impotent.

I'm hungry, but I want to stick to my commitment not to eat anything until Katniss wakes up. Somehow it gives me a kind of hope that my waiting will not be in vain.

With little else to do, I decide to check my leg again. I'm astonished to find that the swelling is almost completely gone and the gash looks like little more than a really nasty scratch. I can hobble about in the cave with relative ease and my strength is returning. Compared to how I was before, it's almost as if I'm back to normal again. It feels so good.

And for the first time since coming into the arena, since the reaping even, I realise that there's actually a chance I might get out of this place alive. A decent chance too. Katniss and I are now the only team left, everyone else is working alone. My improving health means that I could actually be of some use in the alliance. Who knows, maybe there will be a lethal fight amongst the others, leaving us with a two against two scenario. With Katniss's flawless aim and clever wits, we might be able to take them out.

The historic rule change certainly means that the people of the Capitol want us to win. Perhaps the Gamemakers, in an effort to appease the audience, will tip things in our favour somehow. It's easy to forget when you are facing the loss of loved ones back in the Districts, that the Hunger Games is simply a grand piece of entertainment for the Capitol people. And a victory for a pair of star-crossed lovers from District 12 is sure to thrill and ultimately satisfy the viewers. Right?

I hate that I'm thinking this way. About our 'victory' and how we might best provide amusement to the Capitol. It didn't bother me so much when it was just Katniss I was fighting for. But now that I'm back in the position of defending my own life, I'm suddenly aware of the callousness in my thinking. I'm disgusted by it. Even wanting to make it out alive seems terribly wrong since it ultimately means that I wish for others to die. Others who are no more deserving of death than we are.

I look over to Katniss, who appears to just be sleeping peacefully in the sleeping bag. I can't afford to get caught up in that kind of thinking. It will only distract me from what needs to be done. And it does need to be done.

Just focus your attention on Katniss, I instruct myself as I wriggle over to her side. I gently lift her head off the hard cave floor and place it on my lap. Her face is deathly pale, but still breathtakingly beautiful. I rest my hand on her neck and stroke the side of her cheek with my thumb as I gaze down at her. Since coming to the realisation yesterday that she must have feelings for me, I've been working hard to keep my mind from wondering about the future. From letting my hopes and fantasies run wild. But I can't hold it in any longer.

My mind becomes so absorbed in an imaginary future where Katniss and I are together that I almost don't even notice when she begins to stir.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Katniss stretches out her legs and arms slowly, as if waking from a peaceful sleep.

"Katniss," I say, "Katniss, can you hear me?"

Her eyes snap open and her limbs stiffen with alarm. "Peeta," she says, her body relaxes again as she registers my face.

"Hey. Good to see your eyes," I smile back.

"How long have I been out?" she asks.

"Not sure. I woke up yesterday evening and you were lying next to me in a very scary pool of blood," I tell her. "I think it's stopped finally, but I wouldn't sit up or anything."

She reaches out a hand to her head and prods the bandage. I can tell from the way her arm flops back down onto the floor that she's weak. I hold the bottle of water up to her lips and she drinks eagerly.

"You're better," she says.

"Much better. Whatever you shot into my arm did the trick. By this morning, almost all the swelling in my leg was gone," I say.

This news seems to please her and she smiles up at me. "Did you eat?" she asks.

"I'm sorry to say I gobbled down three pieces of that groosling before I realised it might have to last while. Don't worry, I'm back on a strict diet," I say.

"No, it's good. You need to eat. I'll go hunting soon," she says wearily.

"Not too soon, all right?" I say. "You just let me take care of you for a while."

She accepts this without protest and I feed her some groosling and a few raisins, making sure she drinks plenty of water between mouthfuls. She tells me that her feet are still cold so I give them another rub and wrap them up in my jacket before tucking her back into the sleeping bag.

"Your boots and socks are still damp and the weather's not helping much," I say. There's another clap of thunder outside. "I wonder what brought on this storm. I mean, who's the target?"

"Cato and Thresh," she replies without hesitation. "Foxface will be in her den somewhere, and Clove… She cut me and then…" She trails off.

"I know Clove's dead," I tell her. "I saw it in the sky last night. Did you kill her?"

"No. Thresh broke her skull with a rock," she says, almost without emotion.

"Lucky he didn't catch you, too," I say.

The colour drains from her face. "He did. But then he let me go."

"He let you go?" I ask.

And then she tells me everything, not just about the night before but about all the things that have happened since the tracker jacker attack. She was stung like I'd guessed and ended up passing out from the venom. Rue found her and brought her back to health. The two of them formed an alliance, exchanging food and knowledge, and together they made a plan to destroy the Career's supply of food and weapons. Rue's job was to light three fires to draw the Careers away while Katniss investigated the stash. Katniss figured out that the pyramid of supplies was protected by a field of mines.

Of course! It's so obvious. The Careers must have known that Felix had worked out how to safely extract the explosives from the launching ground and rig them around the supplies. That's why he was so particular about the way I stacked them. If something were to fall and land in the wrong spot, everything would have been blasted to bits.

And that's exactly what Katniss was counting on when she shot a bag of apples that was sitting on top of the pyramid. In the explosion, Katniss sustained an injury to her left ear and is now unable to hear anything on that side. Rue didn't make it to the third fire and Katniss found her trapped under a net. But before Katniss could reach her, Marvel thrust a spear into Rue's stomach. Katniss shot Marvel in the neck, killing him almost instantly. I can tell by the way Katniss glosses over this part that she feels remorseful for shooting the kid.

Katniss sang to Rue and held her as the little girl's life slipped away. Katniss even talks of her grief and the guilt she felt for not being able to save Rue, the girl who trusted her and reminded her so much of Prim. She explains to me that in this moment, she understood what I had said to her on the roof about showing the Gamemakers that they don't own me. Wanting to make the Capitol people understand that she and Rue are more than pieces in their Games, Katniss spent a long time intricately decorating Rue's body with flowers. The act was rewarded with a gift of bread from District 11, Rue's district. Such a gesture is unheard of in the Games and would have taken the combined resources of half the district to pay for it.

On the night of the feast, Clove attacked Katniss and was moments from killing her when Thresh showed up. He killed Clove to avenge Rue's death but let Katniss live to repay her for protecting Rue.

"He let you go because he didn't want to owe you anything?" I ask, confused.

"Yes. I don't expect you to understand it. You've always had enough. But if you'd lived in the Seam, I wouldn't have to explain," she says.

Her words cut into me. Just because I didn't grow up in the Seam doesn't mean I've had some sort of a charmed life and that I couldn't possibly understand what it's like to suffer like she has. "And don't try. Obviously I'm too dim to get it," I say bitterly.

"It's like the bread. How I never seem to get over owing you for that," she says.

"The bread? What? From when we were kids?" I say in disbelief. "I think we can let that go. I mean, you just brought me back from the dead."

"But you didn't know me. We had never even spoken. Besides, it's the first gift that's always the hardest to pay back. I wouldn't even have been here to do it if you hadn't helped me then," she says. "Why did you, anyway?"

How can I even begin to answer this question? When you see the girl you love starving to death outside your house in the rain, you are going to do whatever it takes to help her. Part of her at least must know this. "Why? You know why," I tell her. But she gives her head a slight shake. I think back to my conversation with Haymitch before the interview. She still doesn't get it, doesn't believe that my love for her is anything more than a good show the audience. "Haymitch said you would take a lot of convincing," I say.

"Haymitch," she asks. "What's he got to do with it?"

"Nothing," I say. She won't like the idea of me having talked with Haymitch about my feelings for her. Plus we can't have a real conversation about it under the watchful eyes of the Capitol. "So, Cato and Thresh, I guess it's too much to hope that they'll simultaneously destroy each other?"

Her expression becomes pained. "I think we would like Thresh. I think he'd be our friend back in District Twelve," she says.

"Then let's hope Cato kills him, so we don't have too," I say grimly.

She stares up at the ceiling of the cave for a long while. Eventually, I see tears forming at the corners of her eyes. "What is it? Are you in a lot of pain?" I ask.

"I want to go home, Peeta," she says in a desperate voice.

"You will. I promise." I lean down and plant a soft kiss on her forehead.

"I want to go home now," she says.

"Tell you what. You go back to sleep and dream of home. And you'll be there for real before you know it," I say. "Okay?"

"Okay," she whispers, rolling onto her side. Wake me if you need me to keep watch."

"I'm good and rested, thanks to you and Haymitch. Besides, who knows how long this will last?" I say. The temporary peace we are currently afforded has got to end sometime.

The day passes by slowly. In the afternoon, the rain turns into a heavy downpour again, sending small streams of water through the ceiling. I have to reposition the plastic to prevent the water from dripping onto Katniss. I catch the worst of it using the soup pot, emptying it outside regularly. I'm hungry, but resolve not to eat any of our small stash without Katniss.

When evening starts to creep in, I decide it's time to wake Katniss to get some water and food into her. She seems a bit better, able to sit up and eager to eat something.

There's not much left. Two pieces of groosling, a small collection of roots, and a handful of dried fruit.

"Should we try to ration it?" I ask.

"No, let's just finish it," Katniss says. "The groosling's getting old anyway, and the last thing we need is to get sick off spoiled food." She divides the food into two equal portions. We try and eat slowly, but we're both so hungry it's gone in a couple of minutes.

"Tomorrow's a hunting day," she says as she finishes her last bite.

"I won't be much help with that," I say. "I've never hunted before."

"I'll kill and you cook," she says. "And you can always gather."

"I wish there was some sort of bread bush out there," I say helplessly.

"The bread they sent me from District Eleven was still warm," Katniss says wistfully. "Here, chew these." She hands me a few mint leaves.

The anthem plays and the projection in the sky shows that there were no deaths today. I chastise myself for hoping to see Cato or Thresh up there.

"Where did Thresh go?" Katniss asks. "I mean, what's on the far side of the circle?"

"A field. As far as you can see it's full of grasses as high as my shoulders." I say. "I don't know, maybe some of them are grain. There are patches of different colours. But there are no paths."

"I bet some of them are grain. I bet Thresh knows which ones, too," she says. "Did you go in there?"

"No. Nobody really wanted to track Thresh down in the grass. It has a sinister feeling to it. Every time I look at that field, all I can think of are hidden things. Snakes, and rabid animals, and quicksand," I say. "There could be anything in there."

"Maybe there is a bread bush in that field," she says. "Maybe that's why Thresh looks better fed now than when we started the Games."

"Either that or he's got very generous sponsors," I say. "I wonder what we'd have to do to get Haymitch to send us some bread."

Katniss raises her eyebrows and considers this for a minute. Then, somewhat unexpectedly, she reaches out and takes hold of my hand. "Well, he probably used up a lot of resources helping me knock you out," she says with a cheeky smile.

"Yes, about that," I say entwining my fingers with hers. "Don't try something like that again."

"Or what?"

"Or… Or…" I say, trying to come up with a clever response. "Just give me a minute."

"What's the problem?" she asks, grinning smugly.

"The problem is we're both still alive. Which only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing," I say.

"I did do the right thing," she says.

But I'm overcome by the fear of losing her again. I don't seem to be able to get her to understand. To see that without her, my life is nothing. And if she died _for_ me, I couldn't bear to keep on living.

"No! Just don't Katniss!" I say firmly as I tighten my grip on her hand. "Don't die for me. You won't be doing me any favours. All right?"

Katniss stares back at me with intense, fiery eyes. "Maybe I did it for myself, Peeta. Did you ever think of that? Maybe you aren't the only one who… Who worries about… What it would be like if…" She trails off, unable to find the words.

Thump, thump, thump, goes the pounding of my heart. My voice becomes tender. "If what, Katniss?"

"That's exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of," she says evasively.

Did Haymitch talk to Katniss about her feelings? It doesn't seem likely. But what else could she mean? Maybe she's using him as an excuse so she can avoid opening up to me. Whatever it is, I'm determined not to let the moment disappear.

"Then I'll just have to fill in the blanks myself," I say as I move in close, wrapping my arms around her. We've kissed a lot over these last few days, but this one feels different somehow. Perhaps it's because it's the first one we've had where one of us is not on the brink of death. But it feels like more than that. There's a kind of desire behind Katniss's lips that I've not felt before. She presses into me and lets the kiss linger a long while before pausing to gaze up at me. When her eyes fall to my lips, I know she wants another.

Every fibre of my being longs to kiss her again. To feel the warmth of her against me as we lie entwined in one another's arms. But red splotches are starting the seep through her bandage again and I have to settle for giving her a light kiss on the nose. "I think your wound is bleeding again," I say. "Come on, lie down, it's bedtime anyway."

Katniss concedes and prepares for bed. She makes me wear my jacket again despite my protest that she needs it more than I do. I'm grateful though, the air seems to be freezing and I doubt I'd be able to stay warm, even inside the sleeping bag. It makes me think of the girl by the fire on the first night. How cold she must have been to risk attack by lighting that wretched fire.

Katniss insists on taking the first watch, although we both think it's unlikely anyone will come in this weather. I only agree to it on the condition that she's in the sleeping bag with me. She's shivering and I can't stand the thought of her being so cold. As she settles in next to me, I pull her head down onto my arm for her to use as a pillow. I fold my other arm over her body, holding onto her securely as I peacefully drift off to sleep.

Halfway into the night, Katniss wakes me for my shift. "Tomorrow, when it's dry, I'll find us a place so high in the trees we can both sleep in peace," she tells me. I can't imagine falling asleep in a place where rolling over means falling to my death, but I don't say anything to her about it now.

But the next day brings no improvement in the weather. It's as if the Gamemakers don't want us to do anything but huddle together in this cave. Fine by me. But the rain also means that there will be no hunting again today and we're both starting to feel more than a little starved. I offer to go out looking for plants to use as food, but Katniss maintains that I wouldn't be able to see a thing in the storm. She's probably right, and I don't really know what I'm looking for anyway.

Throughout the afternoon, we each take turns to nap. Without the drama of one of us being about to die, I can actually say that it's an enjoyable day. We pretty much spend all our time huddled together in the sleeping bag, just being quiet and peaceful in each other's company. I feel so at ease around her. It's almost possible to forget where we are and the likely horrors that await us in the coming days.

Evening rolls around. We haven't spoken much for a while when Katniss suddenly turns to me and says, "Peeta, you said at your interview you'd had a crush on me forever. When did forever start?"

"Oh, let's see," I begin. "I guess the first day of school. We were five. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair… It was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed you out when you were waiting to line up.

"Your father? Why?" Katniss asks.

"He said, 'see that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner,'" I say.

"What? You're making that up!" she exclaims.

"No, true story," I say. "And I said, 'A coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner if she could have had you?' And he said, 'Because when he sings… Even the birds stop to listen.'"

"That's true. They do. I mean, they did," Katniss says.

"So that day," I continue, "In music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and you sang it for us." It was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. Her voice was sweet and melodic, yet it had a real power behind it. I remember having trouble finding my breath as she sung each word. "And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent."

"Oh, please," Katniss says, laughing.

"No, it happened. And right when your song ended, I knew – just like your mother – I was a goner," I say. "Then for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the nerve to talk to you."

"Without success," Katniss adds.

"Without success. So, in a way, my name being drawn in the reaping was a real piece of luck," I say, smiling.

Katniss sits back and considers my story, perhaps trying to work out if I'm telling the truth. "You have a… remarkable memory," she says haltingly.

"I remember everything about you." I lock eyes with her and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You're the one who wasn't paying attention."

She meets my gaze. "I am now," she says softly.

"Well, I don't have much competition here," I say.

She swallows nervously. "You don't have much competition anywhere." Her eyes come to rest on my lips as she leans in.

But the kiss is quickly interrupted by a clunk outside. We both jump. Before I can even blink, Katniss has her bow in hand and is aiming an arrow at the mouth of the cave. We wait for a long while, but there is no other sound. I peer through a small gap in the rocks and see the parachute attached to a basket on the ground outside. I dart out into the rain to retrieve it, passing it through to Katniss as I fumble back in.

Katniss rips it open and inside there is a full feast – fresh rolls, goat's cheese, apples, and a tureen of lamb stew. The dish that Katniss told Caesar Flickerman was the most impressive thing about the Capitol. They even sent us plates and silverware.

"I guess Haymitch finally got tired of watching us starve," I say brightly.

"I guess so," Katniss replies.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

The cavern fills with the delicious aromas from the basket, making my mouth water. We are both ravenous and I could easily down the lot in one go. Of course, doing so would be very unwise. "We better take it slow on that stew," I say. "Remember the first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I wasn't even starving then."

"You're right. And I could just inhale the whole thing!" she says. So we are both sensible and restrict ourselves to one roll, half an apple, and a small portion of stew and rice. I try to eat slowly and savour every mouthful. The crunch of the crisp, juicy apple, the softness of warm, fluffy white bread dissolving on my tongue, the melody of sweet and savoury in the delectable lamb stew. It disappears all too fast, leaving my stomach feeling far from satisfied.

Katniss looks longingly at her empty plate. "I want more," she says.

"Me too. Tell you what. We wait an hour; if it stays down, then we get another serving," I suggest.

"Agreed. It's going to be a long hour."

"Maybe not that long," I say. "What was that you were saying just before the food arrived? Something about me… No competition… Best thing that ever happened to you…" I tease.

"I don't remember that last part," she says, blushing.

"Oh, that's right. That's what _I_ was thinking," I say. "Scoot over, I'm freezing."

Katniss makes room for me in the sleeping bag and I climb in beside her. We lean back against the cave wall together, her head resting on my shoulder, my arms wrapped around her.

"So, since we were five, you never even noticed any other girls?" she asks.

"No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression but you," I say.

"I'm sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam," she says.

She is right. Most people from the merchant area don't really associate with people from the Seam. My dad wouldn't mind. In fact he'd be proud of me. Maybe even a little jealous for managing to secure the love of my life. My mother certainly wouldn't approve though. I can see her now. Her nose wrinkled as if a putrid smell filled her nostrils. I wonder what she made of my revelation about dad wanting to marry Katniss's mother. I hope it doesn't cause too much trouble for him.

"Hardly. But I couldn't care less," I say. "Anyway, if we make it back, you won't be a girl from the Seam, you'll be a girl from the Victor's Village" I say.

Back when the Games began, the Capitol built a dozen large houses in each district for the victors to live in. Most in District 12 have never been occupied. But if we win, the number of residents in that little village will suddenly triple.

"But then, our only neighbour will be Haymitch!" Katniss says in distaste.

"Ah, that'll be nice," I say, tightening my arms around her. "You and me and Haymitch. Very cosy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games' tales."

She laughs. "I told you, he hates me!" she says, though obviously still amused by the image of us all becoming buddies.

"Only sometimes. When he's sober, I've never heard him say one negative thing about you," I say.

"He's never sober!" she protests.

"That's right. Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It's Cinna who likes you. But that's mainly because you didn't try to run away when he set you on fire," I say. "On the other hand, Haymitch… Well, if I were you, I'd avoid Haymitch completely. He hates you."

"I thought you said I was his favourite," she argues.

"He hates me more," I say. "I don't think people in general are his sort of thing."

In fact, I think Haymitch would actually be more unhappy about having us as neighbours as we would be having him as ours. He's probably become quite accustomed to living alone among the strip of uninhabited mansions. Making trips to the market every few days to restock his supply of booze. His life interrupted once a year to mentor a couple of kids and then watch them die. I realise that his job will become mine if we make it out of here. And Katniss will be responsible for the girl tribute. What a delightful time we will have together. Coaching tribute after tribute, knowing that, at best, only one could ever survive.

As I think about it, Haymitch's lifestyle and reclusive habits start to make more and more sense. In the beginning, when he was still a kid himself, he would have been mentoring his peers. People he knew from school. Imagine being laden with that burden and then feeling responsible when they kept dying. Year after year. As he got older, it would have been his friends' kids. If he had any friends. That's probably why he doesn't.

I begin to speculate about how the unrelenting strain will affect Katniss and I, when Katniss suddenly interrupts my thoughts. "How do you think he did it?" she asks.

"Who? Did what?"

"Haymitch. How do you think he won the Games?" she says.

It was almost 25 years ago now. It's pretty hard to imagine the guy as anything other than a slightly pudgy, red-faced middle-aged man. He's solidly built, but he doesn't in any way measure up to the stature of someone like Cato or Thresh. He is not particularly handsome either, at least not in the way that would have drawn loads of gifts from sponsors. There is only one way he could have survived.

"He outsmarted the others," I conclude. Katniss simply nods in agreement, seemingly lost in thought.

It's only been half an hour when Katniss suggests we have some more food. I'm too hungry myself to protest. Plus it will be much nicer to eat it while it's still warm. Katniss is dishing up two more servings of the stew when the anthem begins to play.

"There won't be anything to see tonight," she says to me as I step over to look through a crack in the cave wall. "Nothing's happened or we would have heard a cannon."

She's right, which is why I'm so stunned to find Thresh's face hanging in the night sky. Cato must have hunted him down after all and somehow we missed the cannon. I'm not sure how Katniss will take this news. She seemed so fond of him and was strangely emotional when I last talked about him being killed. "Katniss," I say quietly.

"What? Should we split another roll too?" she asks, clearly not picking up the concern in my voice.

"Katniss," I repeat a little louder.

She continues to ignore me. "I'm going to split one. But I'll save the cheese for tomorrow." I look at her, waiting patiently for her to acknowledge me. "What?" she says.

"Thresh is dead," I tell her plainly.

"He can't be," she says, frowning at me.

"They must have fired a cannon during the thunder and we missed it," I say.

"Are you sure?" she questions. "I mean, it's pouring buckets out there. I don't know how you can see anything." She comes over, pushing me out of the way and takes a look outside for herself. She lingers there for a few seconds then she slumps back down against the rocks, her gaze fixed on the floor.

"You all right?" I ask gently.

She shrugs and wraps her arms around herself. The situation is complicated. We should be happy that there is one less tribute in the arena to kill us and one less person that we have to fight. But it's hard to escape the fact that another innocent person has just been murdered, especially when that person spared your life.

"It's just… If we didn't win… I wanted Thresh to," she says glumly. "Because he let me go. And because of Rue."

"Yes, I know," I say. "But this means we're one step closer to District Twelve," I say, nudging a plate of food into her hands. "Eat. It's still warm."

"It also means Cato will be back hunting us," she says reluctantly shoving a forkful of food into her mouth.

"And he's got supplies again," I add.

"He'll be wounded, I bet," Katniss says.

"What makes you say that?" I ask.

"Because Thresh would never have gone down without a fight. He's so strong, I mean, he was. And they were in his territory," she says. Katniss seems to figure all this out without even thinking about it much. It's as if it's second nature to her. It makes me wonder briefly if hunting animals is similar to hunting people.

"Good," I say. "The more wounded Cato is the better," I say, feeling no sympathy for him whatsoever. "I wonder how Foxface is making out."

"Oh she's fine," Katniss replies. "Probably easier to catch Cato than her."

"Maybe they'll catch each other and we can just go home," I say. Although we both know the Gamemakers would never allow such an uninspiring finale. "But we better be extra careful about the watches. I dozed off a few times."

"Me too," Katniss admits. "But not tonight."

We finish our food in silence and I offer to take the first watch. Katniss agrees and curls up next to me in the sleeping bag, although I can tell it takes her a long while to fall asleep.

To stay alert, I try to occupy my mind with lessons from school. I attempt some mental arithmetic for a while, before remembering that I hate it. I switch to geography and science, trying to recall as much as I can. When my mind becomes too fatigued, I revert to recalling the words of songs I learned as a child. Despite being a little dull, the system works well and I have no problem staying awake. The only issue I do have with being up is listening to my stomach beg incessantly for more food. Eventually I give in and eat half a roll topped with goat's cheese and apple slices. I'm ready with a second serving to give to Katniss when I wake her for her shift.

"Don't be mad," I say. "I had to eat again. Here's your half."

"Oh good," she says, taking a large bite. "Mm."

"We make a goat's cheese and apple tart at the bakery," I say.

"Bet that's expensive," she says, her words muffled by the mouthful of food.

"Too expensive for my family to eat. Unless it's gone very stale. Of course, practically everything we eat is stale," I say as I pull the sleeping bag up around me. I'm gone in a matter of seconds.

I wake to Katniss gently shaking my shoulder. I look up at her sleepily. I could really get used to seeing that face first thing in the morning. I wrap my arms around her and pull her down for a long, lingering kiss.

"We're wasting hunting time," she says when she finally breaks away.

"I wouldn't call it wasting," I say sitting up and stretching my arms.

The hum of the rain has finally disappeared and the morning air is filled with the songs of relieved birds. Katniss has clearly been impatiently waiting for daybreak to arrive and is eager to get on with the day. She's packed up most of our gear and wrapped a fresh bandage around her head. It's stopped bleeding now, but who knows what the exertion of trekking through the woods will do to it.

"So do we hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?" I ask. I really have no idea.

"Not us," she says. "We stuff ourselves to give us staying power."

"Count me in," I say. But the portion of stew and rice she places in my hand is so large, I'm not even sure I'll be able to finish it. "All this?"

"We'll make it back today," she says, and we dig in. When her plate is almost empty, Katniss scrapes up the remainder of the gravy with her fingers. "I can feel Effie Trinket shuddering at my manners."

I join in. "Hey, Effie, watch this!" I say, tossing my fork over my shoulder. I lick the plate clean, making sure I'm as loud as possible, and then blow a kiss out to her, "We miss you, Effie!" I call loudly.

Katniss covers my mouth with her hand, but she's laughing. "Stop! Cato could be right outside our cave."

I grab hold of her hand. "What do I care? I've got you to protect me now," I say, pulling her in close.

"Come on," she says with mild exasperation. She goes to get up but I steal another kiss before she escapes my grasp.

We pack up the rest of the food and crawl back into the outside world. All levity evaporates in an instant and we become serious once more. It's as if we've stepped back into the arena after taking a little holiday.

Katniss hands me her knife and I slip it into my belt. "He'll be hunting us by now," I say. "Cato isn't one to wait for his prey to wander by."

"If he's wounded –" Katniss begins.

"It won't matter," I interject. "If he can move, he is coming."

We refill our water bottles in the now flooded stream and Katniss checks the traps she set a few days earlier but finds them empty. "If we want food, we better head back to my old hunting grounds," she says.

"Your call. Just tell me what you need me to do," I say.

"Keep an eye out," she instructs. "Stay on the rocks as much as possible; no sense in leaving him tracks to follow. And listen for both of us."

This girl knows what she's doing. I like that she is taking charge and I'm happy to follow orders, even if I feel a bit useless. Katniss leads the way and I follow a few paces behind, working hard to keep a look out and to listen for any unexpected noises. My leg holds up pretty well, but it still hurts with every step, causing me to limp more than I'd like. I'm not sure I could run on it if I needed to, at least not very far.

After a long while, Katniss abruptly turns to me and gives me a sharp, angry sort of a look.

"What?" I ask.

"You've got to move more quietly," she says. "Forget about Cato, you're chasing off every rabbit in a fifteen-kilometre radius," she tells me.

"Really?" I say. "Sorry, I didn't know." I'd been too busy listening for signs of danger to notice the sound of my own footsteps. We start up again and I'm trying my best to tread quietly but it's not long before Katniss stops me again.

"Can you take your boots off?" she says.

"Here?" I ask in disbelief. Surely I can't be that loud.

"Yes, I will, too," she says. That way we'll both be quieter." It seems a bit ridiculous and I certainly can't imagine Katniss hunting barefoot back in District 12, but I don't argue.

After several more hours of treading slowly through the forest, we make it to Katniss's old camp. But aside from a few small birds high up in the trees I haven't spotted a single sign of another living thing. One look at Katniss tells me that she is frustrated with not having anything to show for our efforts.

"Katniss," I say. We need to split up. I know I'm chasing away the game."

"Only because your leg's hurt," she lies. She clearly believes it's more than that.

"I know," I say, playing along. "So why don't you go on? Show me some plants to gather and that way we'll both be useful."

"Not if Cato comes and kills you," she says.

I laugh, trying hard to put her mind at ease. "Look, I can handle Cato. I fought him before, didn't I?"

"What if you climbed up a tree and acted as lookout while I hunted?" she suggests.

I don't think she's deliberately trying to be patronising, but it sure comes across that way. Does she think that I have absolutely nothing useful to offer? "What if you show me what's edible around here and go get us some meat," I say, mimicking her tone. "Just don't go far, in case you need help."

She sighs, but agrees without further objection and shows me some roots to dig.

"Since we're splitting up, we're going to need a way to communicate without alerting anyone else," she says.

"What did you have in mind?" I ask.

"Here, listen." She gives a two-toned whistle and waits while the mockingjays return the tune. "Now you do a different one," she instructs. I let out my own whistle and the birds switch to it within a few seconds. "Okay, if we hear that sound, it means we're safe," she says. "Let's aim to exchange whistles every few minutes or so. If there is no whistle back, it means something is wrong, okay?"

"Okay," I confirm.

Katniss treks off into the woods and I get down to digging the roots. It doesn't take long before I've collected a generous pile. Reassured by Katniss's periodic whistles, I lay the roots on the ground and go searching for more food. Down by the steam, I find a large bush packed full of the purple berries Katniss had gathered back near the cave. I scoop a few handfuls into a pouch I make with the bottom of my jacket and take them back to our meeting place before setting them down on the plastic sheet along with the rolls, cheese, and apples. A nice little picnic for us. Katniss is still out hunting, whistling every few minutes, so I return to the stream to collect more berries. I take my time, stripping the remainder of the bush and shoving the berries into my pockets.

I'm collecting the last handful when I hear Katniss calling to me. "Peeta!" she yells. "Peeta!" Her voice is urgent and frightened. I drop the berries in my jacket pouch and run toward the sound of her voice as quickly as I can, hobbling on my injured leg. Fully expecting to see Cato with his hands around Katniss's throat, I burst into the clearing ready to lunge at him. I barely have time to react when an arrow comes flying past me, hitting a tree just to my left.

"What are you doing?" she yells, standing alone with her bow in hand. "You're supposed to be here, not running around in the woods!" There's real anger in her voice.

"I found some berries down by the stream," I say, bewildered.

"I whistled. Why didn't you whistle back?" she demands.

"I didn't hear. The water's too loud, I guess." She's trembling. I move over to her, placing my hands on her shoulders to steady her.

"I thought Cato killed you!" she says, the anger giving way to fear.

"No, I'm fine," I say wrapping my arms around her. But she doesn't respond. "Katniss?"

She pushes away from me. "If two people agree on a signal, they stay in range," she says, trying to recover the anger. "Because if one of them doesn't answer, they're in trouble, all right?"

"All right!" I say, feeling a little exasperated. I don't like being treated as if I'm five years old.

"All right. Because that's what happened with Rue, and I watched her die!" she says, walking away to fetch a bottle of water from the pack. Now I start to understand. She's not angry with me for breaching our agreement, she is afraid of losing me. That I'll be killed when she's not around to protect me.

"And you ate without me!" she snaps.

"What? No, I didn't," I defend.

"Oh, and I suppose the apples ate the cheese," she says sarcastically.

I look over at the cheese and notice that there's definitely some missing. "I don't know what ate the cheese," I say slowly, suddenly alerted that something might be wrong. "But it wasn't me. I've been down by the stream collecting berries. Would you care for some?"

She hesitates but then walks over to the pile of berries on the plastic and scoops a few of them up, rolling them between her fingers.

Just then, the sound of a cannon rips through the air. Katniss whips around and stares at me, perhaps expecting to see a spear through my heart. But the hovercraft appears a hundred metres or so away, and what's left of Foxface's thin body is lifted into the air. I'm by Katniss's side in a second, grabbing her arm and pulling her towards a tree. Cato can't be far. "Climb! He'll be here in a second. We'll stand a better chance of fighting him from above." I say, spinning back around and readying myself to fight.

But Katniss turns me back to face her and just looks at me calmly. "No, Peeta, she's your kill, not Cato's.

"What?" I say. That doesn't make any sense. "I haven't even seen her since the first day." "How could I have killed her?"

In reply, Katniss simply holds out the berries in her hand.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

It takes a while for me to get it, but Katniss patiently explains it all to me. The berries I had picked were not the same as those we had back in the cave. The ones I had laid out for us to eat can cause death before they even reach your stomach. Apparently, Foxface had been getting by in the Games by stealing small amounts of food from others' supply stashes, taking just enough to stay alive, but not enough for most people to notice.

"She wouldn't have questioned the safety of the berries we were preparing to eat ourselves," Katniss says.

"I wonder how she found us," I say. "My fault I guess, if I'm as loud as you say."

"And she is very clever, Peeta," she says kindly. "Well, she was. Until you outfoxed her."

"Not on purpose. Doesn't seem fair somehow. I mean, we would have both been dead, too, if she hadn't eaten the berries first." But then I remember the way Katniss was rolling the berries in her fingers, and how she knew instantly that Cato was not the cause of Foxface's death. "No, of course, we wouldn't. You recognised them didn't you?"

She nods. "We call them nightlock."

"Even the name sounds deadly," I say, feeling stupid for almost having killed us. "I'm sorry, Katniss. I really thought they were the same ones you'd gathered."

"Don't apologise. It just means we're one step closer to home, right?" she says.

I should be comforted. But how can I be when I've just found out I've killed a girl. "I'll get rid of the rest," I say gathering up the sheet of plastic.

I'm about to fling them into the forest when Katniss calls for me to stop. She pulls out a small leather pouch and fills it with a handful of berries. "If they fooled Foxface, maybe they can fool Cato as well. If he's chasing us or something, we can act like we accidentally drop the pouch and if he eats them –"

"Then hello, District Twelve," I finish.

"That's it," she says, securing the pouch to her belt.

My mind turns back to Cato. "He'll know where we are now," I say. "If he was anywhere nearby and saw that hovercraft, he'll know we killed her and come after us."

She considers this for a moment but seems to deliberately disregard my warning, "Let's make a fire. Right now." She begins to gather branches and brush.

"Are you ready to face him?" I ask.

"I'm ready to eat. Better to cook our food while we have the chance. If he knows we're here, he knows. But he also knows there's two of us and probably assumes we were hunting Foxface. That means you're recovered. And the fire means we're not hiding, we're inviting him here. Would you show up?" she asks.

She is very clever. I'm not sure Cato will have thought it through to that degree, but still, she is probably right. "Maybe not," I say.

I make the fire and Katniss roasts the meat from a very successful hunt; two rabbits and a squirrel. We cook the roots in the coals and take turns to gather greens. When it's done, Katniss packs it all up, leaving us with a rabbit leg each to have now.

Katniss suggests that we go a little further and climb a tree to spend the night. But I still can't think of a worse place to sleep. "I can't climb like you, Katniss, especially with my leg. And I don't think I could ever fall asleep fifteen metres above the ground."

"It's not safe to stay in the open, Peeta," she argues.

"Can't we go back to the cave?" I ask. "It's near water and easy to defend."

She sighs deeply, and I can tell she doesn't like the idea. But to my surprise, she doesn't argue. Instead, she reaches up and gives me a light kiss. "Sure. Let's go back to the cave."

"Well, that was easy," I say, feeling more than a little relieved.

Katniss collects her arrow from the tree and we toss some more wood on the fire for the chance it might throw our assailant off our trail.

When we reach the stream, Katniss suggests that we take our boots off and walk along in the current to cover our tracks. It's such a warm day that the water brings a welcome reprieve. We both stay on alert for signs of Cato, Katniss with her loaded bow in hand and me keeping a careful watch.

Katniss is a few paces ahead as usual and the silence between us gives me unwanted time to reflect on the events of the afternoon. I know that Foxface's death was inevitable, and I know that it was an accident, but the feeling of guilt weighs heavily. Deliberate or not, it was my actions that resulted in her death. It's not right. I had never spoken to her, I didn't even know her name. She was just a kid of no more than about fifteen years old. How clever she was to have survived this long in the arena. It was long enough for her parents, friends, and the rest of the family to allow hope to creep in. To believe that there's a chance she will come home. It seems cruel that this same hope will now be serving to elevate the grief they must be feeling now. To extend the anger and resentment towards the stupid boy who accidentally tricked her into her death. I wish I could say something to them, tell them I'm sorry. But what would be the point? She is gone, and there's nothing I can do to make it okay.

By the time we reach the cave, the sun is beginning to set on the horizon, sending a soft glow of warm orange light through the trees. We are both completely exhausted and my bad leg is aching dreadfully. It is good to be back home though. Our little den feels like a safe haven, providing defence and protecting us from the harshness of the elements. And, having been the location where Katniss and I shared our first kiss and grew in affection for one another, the place brings forth all sorts of warm, indescribable feelings within me.

Katniss sets out a large spread of meat, roots, and greens for our evening meal. But despite feeling ravenous, I only make it about halfway through before I begin to nod off. I don't resist when Katniss instructs me into the sleeping bag and offers to take the first watch.

I don't remember dreaming. Which is a good thing because I don't think I want to recall the ways my mind creatively works through the mounting piles of guilt, grief, and fear. Streaks of grey light are already starting to creep in by the time Katniss shakes me gently awake. "I slept the whole night. That's not fair Katniss, you should have woken me."

"I'll sleep now," she says, ignoring the irritation in my voice and slipping into the sleeping bag. "Wake me if anything interesting happens."

But nothing does, leaving me with a long, awfully drawn out day to sit in silence and ponder about the ways Cato might kill us.

Katniss doesn't stir until about mid-afternoon. "Any sign of our friend?" She asks sleepily as she wakes up.

I shake my head. "No, he is keeping a disturbingly low profile."

"How long do you think we'll have before the Gamemakers drive us together?" she asks.

"Well, Foxface died almost a day ago, so there's been plenty of time for the audience to place bets and get bored," I say. "I guess it could happen at any moment."

"Yes, I have a feeling today's the day," she says. "I wonder how they'll do it."

I think about the past Games I can remember. They can really do anything they like. They can cause a flood, fill the arena with all kinds of unspeakable muttations, strip the forest of the trees, or even shift the landmasses together. There's no telling what they'll do. One thing is certain, when they're ready, they'll be sure to engineer everything just right to ensure the audience is given a spectacular, brutal, finale.

"Well, until they do, no sense in wasting a hunting day," she says. "But we should probably eat as much as we can hold just in case we run into trouble."

Katniss lays out a meal while I pack up the gear. We eat the remainder of the rabbits, roots, greens, and rolls spread with the last of the cheese. All that's left in reserve is the squirrel and one apple.

As we step out into the open, I give the rocks an appreciative pat goodbye. I have a feeling we won't be spending another night here. The day has a sense of inevitability about it. It might not be the last day of the Games, but I can't imagine we'll be afforded another day of just eating, sleeping and sharing a few intimate moments together. The Hunger Games is not primarily a show about romance after all.

My suspicions about things drawing to a close are reinforced when we arrive at the stream and find it empty of water. The Gamemakers have made their first move.

Katniss reaches down to feel it. "Not even a little damp. They must have drained it while we slept," she says.

Our bottles still have plenty of water in them, but it won't last long in the heat. "The lake," I say. "That's where they want us to go."

"Maybe the ponds still have some," Katniss says hopefully.

"We can check," I say, but I think we both know what we'll find. The Gamemakers have chosen the location of the finale and they will make sure we get there. When we reach the pool and find nothing but a large bowl of dirt, Katniss concedes, "You're right. They're driving us to the lake. Where there's no cover. Where they're guaranteed a bloody fight to the death with nothing to block their view."

Where we are at quite a disadvantage, I think to myself. It's Cato's territory. You can be sure that he will have staked out the best hiding places and maybe even set traps for us. He'll be there already, waiting to ambush us. Maybe they are trying to level the playing field since it's two against one. But two of us against one Cato was probably still tipping things in his favour.

"Do you want to go straight away or wait until the water's tapped out?" Katniss asks.

"Let's go now, while we've had food and rest. Let's just go end this thing," I say.

She nods, and I wrap my arms around her. "Two against one. Should be a piece of cake." I say dryly.

"Next time we eat, it will be in the Capitol," she replies.

"You bet it will," I say.

We stand there for a long while, holding each other, feeling each other's touch. It feels frighteningly like a farewell of sorts. Or at least a just-in-case goodbye. Then, without another word, we let go and head towards the lake.

We stop to rest at the tree where Katniss sent the tracker jackers flying down to attack us. The husk of the nest still lies on the ground, beaten out of shape by the storms and dried out by the blazing sun. Katniss touches the tip of the nest with her boot and it dissolves into a cloud of dust.

We've only just gotten down a few bites of meat and a mouthful of water when Katniss suggests we move on. I don't object. Being in this place provokes unwanted venom-induced images of Cato as a terrifying monster standing poised to kill me. It makes my stomach turn and my heartrate quicken. And it's certainly not something I want to think about right before having to face him again.

The trek to the lake is not a long one, but given our late start to the day, evening is already approaching by the time we arrive. The place is eerily quiet. There's no sign of Cato, but he must be nearby. I wonder if he is crouching in the bushes somewhere, watching, waiting. Waiting for what, I do not know.

I glance around at the plain that had once been the Careers' campsite. Everything has been cleared out. The tents, the gathered firewood, the cooking supplies. All gone. The only thing that suggests anything had ever happened here is the blackened outline and shallow crater where the pyramid of supplies had stood. I smile, imagining what it must have been like to see the look on the faces of my former allies when they came back to find everything destroyed.

Katniss and I have a quick look around and check the Cornucopia for signs of Cato. Then, with nothing else left to do, we head down to the lake to replenish our water containers, as if following a script written by the Gamemakers.

The light of the fading sun reflects on the still water, illuminating Katniss's face in a gentle auburn glow. Her brow furrows. "We don't want to fight him after dark. There's only one pair of glasses."

"Maybe that's what he's waiting for," I say. If that's the case, we certainly don't want to give him that advantage. "What do you want to do? Go back to the cave?"

"Either that or find a tree. But let's give him another half an hour or so. Then we'll take cover," she answers.

I agree and we sit ourselves down at the edge of the lake, right out in the open. There's no sense in hiding at this point. We are as ready as we're going to be, and being a long distance from any cover means that Katniss is at an advantage with her bow.

Pretending to ignore the fact that we're waiting for someone who is trying to kill us, we sit looking the horizon, watching how the setting sun transforms the landscape into varying shades of reds, purples, and eventually blues. I wonder if it will be the last sunset I will ever see. If it is, I can at least be thankful that there's no one I'd rather spend it with.

Out of nowhere, Katniss opens her mouth and lets out a beautiful four-note melody. I haven't heard her sing since we were children. It still takes my breath away, just like the first day of school. The mockingjays on the edge of the field pick up the tune immediately, throwing the notes back and forth to one.

"Just like your father," I say.

"That's Rue's song," she says, pointing to the mockingjay pin on her shirt. "I think they remember it."

As more mockingjays join in the song, the melody becomes alive with a rich complexity of notes that overlap with one another in perfect harmony. Katniss even closes her eyes for a time to soak in the sounds. Then abruptly, disruptions in the music can be heard. Distorted shrieks ring out among the melody. The volume lifts, and the song transforms into a distressed cry of alarm.

We are on our feet in an instant, Katniss with her loaded bow, me wielding the knife. We turn to face a commotion in the woods in time to see Cato smashing through the trees. He is running straight toward us. He is not brandishing his sword. In fact, I can see no weapon at all. He appears to be charging us with nothing but his bare hands. Katniss fires an arrow right at his heart but it simply bounces off and he keeps on running.

"He's got some kind of body armour!" she shouts to me.

I face him, preparing myself to fight as he bears down on us. But the fierce boy doesn't seem to be looking at us or even register that we are here. With no attempt to slow down, Cato runs right past us, his sweaty, purple face wearing a terrified grimace. He's been running a long time, not towards us but from something.

I stare anxiously back into the woods in time to see the first horrifying creature leap into the clearing.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Muttations. At least a dozen of them hurtle toward us. I've never seen these mutts before. They must have created them especially for this year's Games. At first I think they are just oversized wolves, but then I notice that they have strangely human-like qualities. The way the stand up and balance on their hind legs. The way they wave one another on with front paws as though they have wrists.

I don't waste any more time trying to get a better look. Cato has made a beeline for the Cornucopia and Katniss is already sprinting after him. Moving towards our enemy was not part of the plan, but we'd never make it to the trees in time and there is nowhere else to go. I hobble behind the two of them as fast as I can, but I can tell from the rising volume of snarls and howls that the creatures are rapidly gaining on me.

Katniss is twenty paces ahead of me when she reaches the base of the horn. She looks around and calls out my name, sending an arrow flying into the pack.

I motion desperately for her to climb, "Go, Katniss! Go!" She does, and she is halfway to the top when I reach the edge, the creatures right on my heels, ready to pounce. I let out a fearful cry.

"Climb!" Katniss yells as I claw at the metal. The gold surface has been designed to resemble the woven horn that we fill at harvest, so there are little ridges and seams to grip onto. But with my injured leg and the knife still clutched in my right hand, I struggle to make my way up.

Katniss shoots another arrow so close to me that I have to fight the urge to duck. I hear the agonised groan of a beast behind me as the shaft meets its target. I scramble upwards to reach Katniss's feet, and she pulls me up by the arm to stand beside her. Cato is at the very the top, doubled over with cramps.

"Can they climb it?" he coughs out.

"What?" Katniss shouts back.

I repeat Cato's question and we both look down at the base of the horn to see them sniffing and scraping at the metal as if to test it out. They call to each other in high-pitched yips and then assemble themselves in a sort of organised fashion. The whole pack backs up on their hind legs, and then they part to make room for one of the creatures to run through. It leaps up, its front legs outstretched, and lands onto the horn just a few metres below us. Katniss shrieks in terror and steps back, flattening her back into the metal. But the animal is unable to grip the sleek surface and starts to slip, scrabbling to hold on with razor-sharp claws about the size of my palm.

Then Katniss does something strange. Even though it's clear the animal is about to fall off, she fires one of her few remaining arrows down its throat.

I turn to her, gripping her arm. "Katniss?"

"It's her!" she cries.

"Who?" I shout back over the growls and barks below.

But Katniss is focused on the pack, her eyes darting from creature to creature as if trying to take them all in at once.

"What is it, Katniss?" I ask, shaking her shoulder.

"It's them. It's all of them. The others," she chokes out without drawing her attention from the mutts. "Rue and Foxface and… all of the other tributes."

I follow her gaze down. There is definitely something very odd, very disturbing about these muttations. They each have distinct coats of fur, ranging from straight and sleek to thick and curly. The colours are bizarre too. Not greyish black like regular wolves, but jet black, mousy brown, or what I can only describe as blond. Strangest of all though is their eyes. They aren't shaped like the eyes of any wolf or dog, or any other animal I've ever seen. They are distinctly human, and they vary in colour the same way ours do. Finally, I notice the collars; each one bears a number from 1 to 11.

A horrified gasp escapes my mouth as I recognise them. The one Katniss had just shot was… Glimmer, with her green eyes and blond hair. The others are all there too. The one with an orange coat and amber eyes… Foxface. I can see Drusa, with a jet black coat and matching dark eyes. Even little Rue is there, a small mutt with curly black fur. Her wide brown eyes burn into me.

"What did they do to them?" I cry. "You don't think… These could be their real eyes?"

Katniss doesn't answer. She grips my waist hard and continues to gape at the animals. They seem to have organised themselves into two groups, one at each side of the horn and are using their powerful hindquarters to spring upwards. A set of jaws snaps together just out of reach from Katniss's hand.

I'm grabbing hold of her arm to direct her to climb further up when my body is wrenched violently downwards. The beast has me by the calf, its claws lodged deep into the flesh. It's pulling hard, and if it were not for Katniss's grip on my arm I'd be dragged down into the pack in a matter of seconds.

"Kill it, Peeta! Kill it!" Katniss shouts frantically.

I thrash around, trying to swipe at it with my knife but I can't get low enough to reach it. The creature sneers, unfazed by my attempts of attack. It sinks a second set of claws into my leg and hauls itself upwards so its face is within inches of mine. It locks a set of pale brown eyes on mine. Eyes that are intensely familiar. Not just because I knew their owner, but because they have looked upon me in this exact way before. They belong to Marvel.

What an exciting turn of events for the audience. The boy who almost killed me on the first day. The boy who nearly ripped me apart for refusing to share Katniss's secret. The boy whose life I saved beneath a burning log. As if fate had it all along, Marvel, in some form or another, is going to be the one to end it all.

The animal rears his head, pulling his lips into a curl to expose fangs as large as a lion's. Drool dangles hungrily from his gaping jaw. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the creature to lay its teeth into me. But it's not teeth that I feel. No. It's a heavy mass on my body. I open my eyes to find the wolf of Marvel flattened out on top of me, scrambling to regain his balance. A second mutt is at his hind legs, clawing its way upwards towards me. Marvel growls loudly and kicks downwards with his back paw, hitting his companion in the face. The mutt yelps and falls to the ground.

Marvel turns his attention back to me. But he's lost his hold on me and is trying desperately to grip the surface of the horn. I seize the opportunity, lurching forward and thrusting my knife straight upwards. The blade passes through the roof of his mouth, hitting the skull with an awful sounding screech. I can tell he's dead before he even hits the ground.

Katniss, who somehow held onto me the whole time, hauls me back up beside her. Without having to look, I know my leg is very severely injured. Blood pours out down the side of the horn at an alarming rate. It feels as though I'm being stabbed with scorching hot knives that are being twisted and wrenched back and forth. But there's no time to do anything about it now, there are two other, much more immediate dangers to take care of.

Katniss helps drag me to the top. Cato is still hunched over on his knees but is beginning to recover his breath. Katniss sees it too and aims an arrow at his head, but before she can fire, a colossal mutt marked with the number 11 leaps onto the top of the horn, right in front of us. Katniss adjusts her aim and her arrow bores into creature's head.

She is rearming her bow when I feel my body jerked to the side. Cato grips my arm and throws me into a headlock. I claw at his bicep and try to yank my body free, but he doesn't even flinch. He drags me to the lip of the Cornucopia. I think he's just going to throw me right over the side, but he stops and turns us both to face Katniss, tightening his grip around my windpipe.

Katniss aims an arrow at his head, but Cato just laughs. "Shoot me and he goes down with me."

He's right. We're so close to the edge that if Katniss shoots, we will both tumble down to the mutts together. Katniss freezes, her arrow still poised to shoot, clearly at a loss. But she doesn't have time to think. It won't be long before I pass out, and once I do, Cato will come charging at her, possibly even using my body to shield his head. She can't shoot if he's right on top of her. I want to tell her to fire, but I Cato's arm across my throat prevents me from being able to speak. All I can do is plead with my eyes, urging her to let the arrow fly.

But she doesn't. And I realise she won't. We've been through too much together. She cannot simply give my life away now. It's the feast all over again, Katniss putting her life in the balance to try to save mine. Well, I won't let her do it. Not this time. I'm going to have to take the decision out of her hands and just end things myself. If I can push back hard enough, I should be able to throw Cato off balance, causing us to tumble over the edge of the horn.

I'm reaching my hand up towards Cato's arm to get a better grip when an idea suddenly pops into my head. In what I'm sure are my last moments of consciousness, I meet Katniss's eyes and raise my finger to draw a deliberate _X_ on the back of Cato's hand. Katniss is quick to understand. She fires and hits the target, sending Cato's arm flying backwards. I twist around and slam my body into his, pushing him backwards. We both stumble at the edge, and for a moment, I think we are both going to go over, but Katniss dives forward and catches hold of me. Cato is unable to regain his footing on the blood-slick horn and slips over the edge.

We hear the thud of his body as it hits the dirt, followed by the rabid snarls and growls of attack. Katniss and I hold on to each other, waiting for the mutts to finish the job. For it all to be over. But the end doesn't come. Not yet. Cato is protected by his body armour and is refusing to go down without a fight. I realise he must have some kind of weapon, too because, amongst his cries, there are howls of pain and gurgling coming from the animals as they are struck down. We hear the battle move around to the tail of the Cornucopia, and I know Cato must be attempting climb back up. But in the end, the creatures are too many and too powerful. His remarkable strength and skill are still not enough to overcome them.

I don't know how long it has been, maybe an hour or so, when we hear the mutts dragging him back into the Cornucopia. Surely this is it, I think to myself. But still no cannon fires, and when the anthem plays, there is no picture of Cato in the sky. The Games are not over yet. There is no hovercraft coming to release the victors and take us back to the safety of the Capitol. And without rescue, my injuries are now an immediate concern.

With all our supplies still down by the lake, we don't have many options to address the wound. Katniss removes the shirt from underneath her jacket and instructs me to lie down so she can inspect my calf. I steal a quick glance and immediately wish I hadn't. The sight of it seems to multiply the pain to beyond unbearable. It's bad. Really bad. The claws had torn through the flesh, ripping chunks out and leaving bits dangling off. Blood is continuing to pour out and it seems to be showing no signs of slowing down. With Cato refusing to die any time soon, there's a real chance I could bleed to death before the cannon fires.

Katniss works silently, cutting the sleeve from her shirt and wrapping it around my leg twice, just under the knee. She inserts her last remaining arrow into the folds and twists it around and around until the flow of blood is cut off. I've heard of people who have lost limbs using this technique, but I also know that blood loss can kill awfully fast. If Katniss has weighed it up and decided it's worth the risk, then all I can do is trust that she's right.

Katniss bandages up the rest of my leg with what's left of her shirt and then lies down beside me. "Don't go to sleep," she tells me through chattering teeth.

"Are you cold?" I ask, suddenly aware of the bitterly cold wind whipping around us. She nods and I unzip my jacket. Katniss wriggles in close to press her body against me and I fasten the jacket up around us.

"Cato may win this thing yet," Katniss whispers.

"Don't you believe it," I say, pulling the hood over her head.

We lie huddled together, bracing ourselves against the cold. The steel Cornucopia is turning to ice beneath our bodies and it feels as though we are encased in a freezer. I try to block out the sounds of torment below, but in the quiet of the night, the suffering of the dying boy seems to fill the entire arena, reverberating hauntingly around us. He moans, begs, and finally just whimpers as the mutts tear at him.

"Why don't they just kill him?" Katniss asks.

The answer is obvious, of course. This is the climax. Every eye in the Capitol will be glued to the screen to watch the gruesome end to this boy's life. It's just entertainment. "You know why," I say, folding my hands over the small of her back pulling her closer to me.

The night creeps along and I can feel myself growing weaker and weaker. My head spins and I'm overcome by an incessant urge to sleep. But each time I give into it, Katniss yells my name and begs for me to stay with her. I don't know if it's because of the fear that I won't wake up, or the intolerability of facing the horrors of the night alone, but the desperation in her voice tells me that I have to do everything I can to remain conscious.

Katniss is crying now. Her face is buried in my arm and I can feel the tears as the soak into the sleeve of my shirt. She seems to retreat inside herself, into a place of inner torment and suffering. My attempts at talking to her are simply met with sounds of opposition and quiet sobs. Eventually, I insist that she looks up at the moon and acknowledge that it's moving slowly across the sky. Every time she breaks into a fresh onslaught of tears, I gently draw her attention upwards and get her to concede that time is in fact passing.

I can't remember a greater feeling of relief than when I see a faint light on the horizon. I stroke Katniss's cheek and whisper the news in her ear. Cato's moaning continues, though it's now intermittent and barely audible. At some point in the night, all the awful things this boy said and did, all the unspeakable acts of cruelty, ceased to matter. No one deserves to endure this level of suffering.

"I think he's closer now, Katniss, can you shoot him?" I ask.

"My last arrow's in your tourniquet," she says.

"Make it count," I say, unzipping my jacket to let her out.

She retrieves the arrow from my leg and reties the bandage as tightly as she can. She rubs her hands together, loads her bow, and crawls to the lip of the horn. I wrap my arms around her waist as she hangs her body over the edge and takes aim. The string of the bow twangs and I hear the sound of the arrow whooshing through the air.

I pull her back up. "Did you get him?" I whisper.

The cannon fires in reply.

"Then we won, Katniss," I say in a hollow voice.

"Hurray for us," she says, but there's no triumph in her voice.

A hole opens on the plain and the remaining mutts obediently leap into it as it closes behind them. We wait for Cato's hovercraft and for the trumpets of victory to begin playing, but there's nothing. It's like they're waiting for something.

"Hey!" Katniss shouts into the air. "What's going on?" There is no response.

"Maybe it's the body. Maybe we have to move away from it," I say feebly.

"Okay. Think you could make it to the lake?" she asks.

"Think I better try," I say. As we make our way down, I'm surprised to find my leg doesn't actually hurt too badly now. But the loss of feeling also means that I'm unable to control it properly and it gets in the way as we slip and stumble downwards.

We limp over to the lake and I collapse at the edge. Black spots are appearing at the edges of my vision and I know I don't have long until I pass out. Katniss scoops up a handful of water and brings it to my lips.

Finally, the hovercraft appears and what's left of Cato's ravaged body is lifted to the sky. Waves of relief rush over me and tears form in Katniss's eyes. It's over. We can finally go home.

But still no trumpets play.

"What are they waiting for? I ask weakly.

"I don't know," she says, frowning at the blood that has started to pour from my leg once more.

Katniss gets up to retrieve a stick to redo the tourniquet, but almost immediately comes across a stray arrow from the battle the night before. She's just stooping to pick it up when the loud boom of Claudius Templesmith's voice fills the arena.

"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rulebook has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck and maybe odds be ever in your favour."

There's a sharp burst of static, and then silence. Katniss and I stare at each other blankly in utter disbelief. No! My mind is reeling. A million thoughts all racing through at once. How could they do this? How could they let us believe that we could both get out of here alive, that we could be together, and then suddenly take it all away? And not just that, but actually expect one of us to kill the other?

But it's the Capitol. This is exactly what they do. The Gamemakers are fulfilling their role of producing exhilarating television, which in turn allows the Capitol to maintain its sadistic, unshakable stronghold on the districts. There is only ever one winner and that's how they want it to be. I don't know how I was stupid enough to have ever believed them. This twist at the end was all part of the plan.

"If you think about it, it's not that surprising," I say softly. I take a deep breath and let the air fill my cheeks as it escapes my lungs. It takes all my strength to fight my way up to my feet. I want to embrace her, to hold her one more time. On some level, I think I always knew it would come down to this. Me sacrificing my life so that Katniss could live. It was my plan all along, and apparently it was the Gamemakers' plan too. At least now I know that when I die, Katniss is certain to survive. That's much more than I could have hoped for in the beginning.

I want the Capitol to know exactly what I'm doing. I still want to show them that I really am more than just a piece in their Games. They haven't changed me. Here I am, just like on day one, ready to give my life up for the girl that I love. As I limp towards Katniss, I remove the knife from my belt and throw it theatrically into the lake.

As I look up, I am stunned to find Katniss holding her loaded bow, an arrow pointing at my heart. But then she drops them both to the ground, her face reddening.

"No," I say. "Do it." I stagger toward her, pick up her weapon, and push it back into her hands.

"I can't," she says. "I won't."

"Do it. Before they send those mutts back or something. I don't want to die like Cato." I say.

"Then you shoot me," she says angrily. "You shoot me and go home to live with it!" She shoves the weapon into my hands.

"You know I can't," I say, letting it fall to the ground again. "Fine, I'll go first anyway." I lean down and tear the bandage off my leg.

"No, you can't kill yourself," she says, falling to her knees and trying frantically to re-bandage my wound.

"Katniss," I say softly. "It's what I want."

"You're not leaving me here alone," she says desperately.

"Listen," I say, pulling her back up to her feet to face me. "We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me." She turns her head, no longer able to meet my eyes. I continue, "Katniss, you've known this from the beginning. I came into the arena, ready to give my life for you. It was my plan all along because I knew that if I survived, it meant you wouldn't and I couldn't live with that, Katniss. I can't live with that. So if you die here, I am dying too because my life is nothing without you in it. Do you understand me? Katniss, I love you. I love you more than my own life. You have to let me go."

She's still looking away, refusing to let me see her face. Then, as if she heard none of what I'd said, she reaches for the pouch containing the nightlock berries.

"No, I won't let you," I say, grabbing her wrist firmly.

"Trust me," she whispers softly. Her eyes lock onto mine. Her beautiful grey eyes. They seem to be telling me something, something she cannot say with the audience looking on. We pause for a long moment, holding each other's' gaze. I don't know what it is, but my instinct says to trust her, so I let her hand go. She reaches into the pouch and pulls out a handful of berries, placing some in my hand and leaving the rest cupped in hers.

She is right. We cannot both survive this and she can't bear to go on without me just like I can't live without her. This is the only way we can escape it together.

"On the count of three?" she says.

I lean down and kiss her gently on lips, one last time. "The count of three," I repeat.

We turn, pressing our backs against each other, our empty hands locked tightly together.

"Hold them out. I want everyone to see," I say, stretching my arm out in front of me.

Katniss gives my hand a final squeeze as we begin to count.

"One." This is it. "Two." Goodbye, my dear Katniss. "Three!" I lift my hand to my mouth and pour the berries in.

The sound of the trumpets play and the voice Claudius Templesmith shouts wildly from above. "Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you – the tributes of District Twelve!"


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

I spit the berries onto the ground and grab hold of Katniss, pulling her to the lake where we both flush our mouths out with water.

"You didn't swallow any?" she asks.

I shake my head. "You?"

"Guess I'd be dead by now if I did," she says.

"I thought I was going to lose you," I say, trying to speak over the roar of the crowd that is now being broadcast into the arena.

A hovercraft appears above us and two ladders drop down. The loss of blood has made me so weak that Katniss has to haul me up onto the first step. She places her own foot on the same rung, ignoring the second ladder. The current freezes us in place, which is a relief because I'm sure I don't have the strength to hold on for the short ride into the ship. Even though I can't move, I can still feel the river of blood pouring out of my leg. Draining the life from me. Before we even reach the inside, I slip into unconsciousness.

When I wake, I am laying in a hospital bed in a small white room. My head is foggy and my body feels lightweight, as if hovering above the mattress. There's a drip running into my arm and another one going into the back of my hand. My leg is held up in some sort of contraption, covered with sheets. The pain is gone, but there is a tickling, burning sensation just below the knee. My toes have pins and needles, but when I go to wiggle them, they don't respond. Perhaps the area is still numb from surgery or painkillers or something.

A small man comes in wearing plain white clothes, holding a chart in his hand. He seems startled to find me awake. "Oh, you're up. I'll um… I'll go get the doctor," he says, nervously. He puts the chart down and shuffles toward the door.

"Wait! What's going on?" I croak. "Is my leg okay? How's Katniss? Can I see her?"

"Um, hang on, I'll go get the doctor," he repeats, and darts out of the room. With my leg held up, I can't do anything but wait. I peer at the room around me. It's completely bare aside from a small chair beside my bed. Everything is white from the floor to the ceiling. There are no windows, just the single door across the room. The scent of antiseptic fills the air.

I'm naked besides a thin hospital robe, and I can tell that without even touching it that my skin has been scrubbed clean. I lift the robe and sneak a look at my bare chest. The skin is no longer blistered and scabbed, but smooth and only lightly scarred. This degree of healing would have taken months back home without superior medical treatment. I trace my fingers over my soft, unchapped lips and through my silky washed hair.

The man returns followed by another, much older man. The second man is also dressed in white but his shirt has buttons and a collar, and he wears a cropped cream-coloured coat over the top. His grey hair is cut short and his ageing face has a warm, placid look about it.

"Right. Mr Mellark. My name is Dr Akim," he says with a friendly smile. "Good to finally have you with us." He makes his way to stand beside my bed. "We have some good news and some bad news."

"Is Katniss okay?" I ask.

"Oh, yes, she's absolutely fine, my boy," he says, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I was merely talking about you."

I relax back into my pillow.

"Now, as I was saying, we have some good news and some not so good news," he says. "The good news is that there is no doubt that without your beloved's intervention on the last day of the Games, you wouldn't be here today. That tourniquet surely did save your life. The bad news is that it was not without a cost." I stare at him blankly, waiting for him to continue.

"My boy, I'm afraid we couldn't save your leg. We had to amputate it in theatre," he says simply.

"Wait, what? But my leg's right here, I can feel it," I say, gesturing downwards.

"No son, I am afraid that what you can feel is just false signals from your brain. It hasn't quite worked out that the leg is gone," he says. "It's a very common phenomenon." He pulls back the sheets. "Here, see for yourself."

I peer down in disbelief. In the place where my leg used to be is some sort of apparatus made up of polished steel and translucent plastic. It's joined from just below the knee, and there is no foot, just a stump at the end.

"Now don't worry," Dr Akim says. "The robotics team is working away on making you a new foot. When they put it on, we'll get you back on your feet in no time."

"So, I will be able to walk again?" I ask.

"Of course, my boy. You are being fitted with the latest technology. I don't see any reason why you won't be able to run again," he says. "However, be warned that it will take quite a bit of getting used to. It will never be quite like your old leg but it's the next best thing."

It's a lot to take in. It feels strange to look at the place where my leg should be - where I'd assumed without ever thinking about it that it would always be, and see an alien robotic structure. To feel the sensations in my toes and see nothing but empty space. Maybe it's just the drugs, but I can't shake the feeling that this is all a dream. That I can't possibly be missing a leg. Soon I will wake up and everything will be back exactly where it should be.

I'm not upset, really. Perhaps it will just take a while for it all to really sink in, but for now, all I can think is that the doctor is right and I'm just happy to still have my life. I wonder what Katniss will think. No doubt she will feel responsible for having cost me my leg, but will she be able to forgive herself, knowing that she saved my life?

"Can I see Katniss now?" I ask.

"All in good time, my boy," he says, pulling the sheets back up over my leg. "Your job right now is to rest and recover, okay?"

I don't see why I can't rest and recover with Katniss coming to visit me, but Dr Akim has been kind to me so I don't question him.

"Now, I will leave you with my trusted associate, Florus," he says gesturing to the other man. "He will take good care of you." Dr Akim slips out of the room and the man called Florus fiddles with the dials on the drip machine. My eyes instantly become heavy, and sleep swallows me.

I spend what seems like the next few days in a half sleep state, barely conscious of the world around me. Every now and then I'm aware of medical staff coming in and out, checking my leg, adjusting my drips, and talking amongst themselves. I'm not really sure why they are keeping me so heavily sedated, whether it's to aid my recovery, quell the pain, or just to subdue me so I don't cause any problems. Whatever the case, I'm too out of it to care much at all about anything.

The next time I'm fully conscious, Dr Akim is back by my side again. "Well, today's the day," he says. "Time to fit you with that new foot." A small team of people are assembled at the end of my bed, baring excited expressions. One of them is clutching a robotic foot, holding it out in front of him like he's about to present it to me as an award. Like my leg, it looks to be constructed from shiny polished steel and clear plastic. There are a set of toes that appear to be intricately constructed, complete with small joints and toenails. The team begin by positioning a soft, tightfitting helmet on my head that is attached to a machine via a dozen small wires. Then they get to work on securing the foot under the watchful eyes of Dr Akim. After about twenty minutes or so of testing my response on the monitors and making adjustments, they appear to be satisfied.

"Okay, now it's your turn to test it out," Dr Akim says. "Try to move your ankle." I follow his instruction and the foot moves up and down, side to side. It's a little sluggish, but the joint otherwise it obeys my commands.

"Very good!" Dr Akim says. "Now your toes, see if you can give them a little wiggle."

I try to move them, but they don't respond. "I can't," I say. A man at the end of the bed makes some adjustments. "Okay, give it a go now," the man says.

I try again and this time, my metal toes slowly bend and flex.

"Wonderful," Dr Akim says. "It looks like everything will work just fine."

I'm given a few more exercises while the team makes some final adjustments and then secure the foot using screws and wires.

"Right, that's it for the day then, now it's time to rest," Dr Akim says. "Tomorrow we take it for a test run." I want to ask about Katniss but before I can say anything, Florus is already adjusting my drip again and I go under.

When Dr Akim returns the next day, he is accompanied by a young woman.

"This is Camilla, your physiotherapist," he says. "She will be teaching you how to walk and move about on your new leg."

"Nice to meet you, Peeta," she says, coming forward to shake my hand.

Camilla is a large woman, a little taller than me, and sturdily built. She is dressed in the same white uniform as Florus and wears her blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun.

Dr Akim crosses over to me. "You won't be needing these anymore." He removes the drips from under my skin.

"You mean I won't be sedated anymore?" I ask.

"No, that's all finished now," he says.

Florus comes into the room, steering a wheelchair.

Seeing the way I peer at it with distaste, Camilla says to me, "Don't worry, it's just to get you over to the therapy room, then we'll start to get you walking again."

Dr Akim strides toward the door. "Well, I'll leave you all to it," he says.

"Hold on," I say. "Can I see Katniss now?"

He looks at me sympathetically. "I'm sorry, son. The crew has decided to keep you two apart for now. They want to air your reunion live on television when you're a bit better."

The crew? Frustration seeps in. He means the television crew. The Games may be over, but our role as the Capitol's entertainment is not.

"How about Haymitch? And Portia and Effie? Why haven't they come to see me?" I ask sullenly. I haven't been with it enough to think about it, but I'm suddenly hurt that not one of them has even bothered to visit.

"Ah, I'm afraid that's just protocol. No one gets to see the victor until they are all healed up. Unfortunately, in your case, it's taking a while," he says. "Now if you'll please excuse me, I really must go." He disappears through the door. I feel alone and helpless. There's no use arguing. The Capitol will do things the way they want to do them and, victor or not, a crippled boy from the districts isn't going to be able to change that.

Dr Akim is right though. There's almost always a few days between the end of the Games and the presentation of the victor. It allows time for the starved, wounded mess of a person to heal and be made presentable to the public once more. Portia and Cinna will be using this time to create our wardrobes for the public appearances. Haymitch and Effie will be busy arranging the obligatory banquet for our dedicated sponsors and reviewing the questions for our final interviews.

Camilla and Florus get to work on helping me into the wheelchair. I go to stand but they insist on lifting me themselves. Camilla wheels me down the narrow corridor to a large open room filled with all kinds of exercise equipment- weights, resistance mechanisms, stationary bikes, and running machines. There's even a small pool. Camilla positions my chair to a pair of parallel handrails.

"The first thing we're going to try is simply standing," she says, ducking between the bars to position herself in front of me. "Put your hands up here and see if you can lift yourself up," she says, gesturing to the rails.

I clasp the metal bars with both hands and haul myself into a standing position. I am weak, but I manage to balance with relative ease.

"Good," Camilla says slowly. "But the idea is for you to use your new leg."

I look down to find my knee bent, my prosthetic leg dangling above the ground. "Sorry, I didn't mean to," I say sheepishly.

"No need to apologise at all. It's part of the learning process," she reassures me. "Now sit down again and let's have another try."

I carefully lower my body back down and get into position for the next trial. This time, I keep my eyes fixed on the lower half of my body. But it's like standing on the tip of a ball and I overbalance. Camilla catches me as I fall forward.

"Steady, steady," she says, holding onto my shoulders.

"Sorry," I say.

"No, no, no. That's the last apology I hear from you in this place, you understand?" she says, smiling kindly.

"Sorr… I mean, okay, got it," I say.

"Good," she says. "Come on, let's see if we can get you to balance," she says.

I try again, and this time I manage to steady myself enough to let go of the rails briefly. Camilla seems very pleased with me, but gets me to practice getting up and down twenty or so more times before we move on to try walking.

We continue to use the rails for support and I grip them tightly as I inch my way along. It takes me almost half an hour to cover a thirty-metre stretch, but I make it without falling. Camilla wheels the chair over to me and gets me to have a long rest before attempting the walk back. The return trip is much easier, I'm able to briefly release my grip on the rails and it only takes about ten minutes or so to reach the other side.

"Excellent!" Camilla exclaims as she helps me back into the chair. "I think that will just about do you for the day."

I'm exhausted and starving by the time Camilla has wheeled me back to my room. The tubes have been feeding me up until now and I'm eager to taste real food again. When dinner arrives though, it's just a medium bowl of broth, some applesauce, and a glass of water. I find myself feeling angry. Shouldn't my homecoming meal be a little more spectacular? This is more like food for a prisoner, not a famed victor. But when I struggle to finish it, I realise that the small portion size and bland taste of the meal were actually to protect me. I must have been sedated for longer than I'd realised for my stomach to have shrunk this much.

The following day, Camilla has me practice walking on crutches, getting up from the ground, and even navigating slopes and stairs. I'm starting to get the hang of it and by the third day, I've graduated to using a cane. On the fourth day, Camilla is so pleased with me that she tells me that her work is done. I'm still limping, but she assures me that I will improve over time and that I eventually won't need the cane.

"It's been a pleasure working with you, Peeta. Really," Camilla says.

"I'm just thankful that you persisted with me long enough for me to finally get the hang of it," I say, grinning at her.

Camilla gives me a playful punch on the arm and follows up by wrapping her hands around mine to shake them.

My dinner is waiting for me by the time I arrive back in my room, which tells me that it must now be early evening. The meals are the only real way to monitor the time in this place. All the light is artificial and there are no windows, suggesting that we are most likely underground. It gives me a constant sense of mild claustrophobia. The past few days have seen a steady increase in the quantity and richness of the food. Today, I'm rewarded with a beef and rice stew, followed by a sweet apple pie with ice cream for dessert. That's more like it.

After the first night of sleeping without a drip, the medical team insisted on giving me an injection to put me to sleep. Apparently, I had spent much of the night screaming and thrashing around in my sleep. They made out like the injection was for my own benefit - to help me 'sleep soundly,' but when I refused it; it immediately became apparent that it was not actually my choice. Tonight I don't mind so much. Now that I'm walking again, there's a good chance I'll get to see Katniss or at least Portia, Effie, and Haymitch tomorrow. The idea makes me so excited that I don't think I'd have been able to sleep anyway.

If our first public appearance is in fact tomorrow, that means that in about forty-eight hours, we'll be on the train, headed back home. Home. I hadn't allowed myself to think about it until now. I've been so focused on the goal of keeping Katniss alive and escaping the arena that I shoved all thoughts of my family and District 12 from my mind. In the quiet solitude of my hospital room, everything that I should have been thinking and feeling throughout the Games floods back in. I imagine my parents and brothers huddled together in the kitchen, their eyes fixed on our small television screen as they watched all the events of Games unfold. Marvel nearly killing me on the first day, me slitting the throat of the girl by the fire, Cato attacking me with the sword, the blood poisoning, Katniss nursing me back to health, and finally, the brutal muttation attack and ultimate showdown with Cato on the Cornucopia.

I picture them grieving together, cheering, shouting at the screen, crying, and in every way being totally shocked by what they saw. Did they sit up to watch the replays, commentaries, and highlight reels? Or did they just view the bare minimum and then try to get on with their lives? I feel a little sting of pride when I think about my mother's final words to me. Yes, District 12 really did have a winner this year. But the anger and hurt I had felt for my mother disappeared a long time ago. Now, I just long to see her again, along with the rest of my family and the other familiar faces of home.

I wake in the morning to the flicker of the bright fluorescent lights of my hospital room. I nearly jump out of my bed when I see the neat pile of clothes folded on the chair beside me. It's is the outfit I had worn in the arena. Not the actual one, but a clean, freshly pressed version of the same thing. I relax again when I remember that this is the customary uniform for my reunion with the District 12 team. I force myself to get dressed and sit waiting for further instruction.

It's not until after breakfast that Florus comes to collect me. I walk steadily beside him with my cane as he escorts me down several narrow passages. When we get into the elevator, the buttons reveal that the hospital is indeed far underground. Even beneath the training gym. A flutter of excitement ripples through my stomach as we make the short ride up to the Training Centre lobby.

The doors slide open and an army of cameras and video recorders swarm into view. Effie rushes past them and grabs hold of both my hands, kissing me on each cheek a few too many times. "Oh! You were wonderful, just wonderful" she breathes. Portia is next. I can see tears in her eyes as she wraps me up in a long, tight embrace. She says nothing to me but refuses to let me go until Haymitch steps up behind her and pointedly clears his throat. She moves aside, and Haymitch extends a hand toward me. I go to shake it but he pulls me into a big bear hug and slaps my back. "Nice job Peeta," he says. "You kept her alive, and you even came out all right yourself." He seems genuinely pleased.

"Come on," says Portia, "We've got a lot of work to do to get you ready for tonight."

"For the interview?" I ask.

"That's right," she says.

"And Katniss will be there?"

"Katniss will be there," she repeats, smiling affectionately at me.

The thrill of anticipation swarms in my chest as Portia leads me past the cameras to the tribute elevator. The doors open back on the familiar twelfth floor and Cassia, Junia, and Prisca rush forward, almost tripping over each other, to hug and congratulate me. I'm not sure if they're pleased to see me alive or just excited to finally have a victor that they get to polish up. It takes me by surprise when I realise that I'm genuinely pleased to see them, too.

"Let's get to work," says Cassia, pulling off the shirt from my back. The three women gasp in shock and cover their faces dramatically in when they look upon my naked body.

"Oh, you poor dear! "There's not much we can do to beautify that I'm afraid," Junia says pointing down at my prosthetic leg. Yes, beauty is the exact thing I was worried about when I found out I'd lost a limb. "But never mind that darling. Hasn't the hospital done a wonderful job with your full body polish?" she exclaims brightly. The three of them trace their fingers enviously over my smooth, unblemished skin.

I let out a small yelp when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I barely recognise the skinny, defeated-looking kid staring back at me. I've lost a heap of weight and for the first time in my life, I can actually see my ribs. My face looks sunken and my cheeks are hollow and gaunt. Apart from that though, I actually look like I'm in good physical shape. Not like someone who has nearly died and been beaten and wounded countless times in the past few weeks. There's no scar on my arm and even the burn mark across my chest has now vanished completely, as if it were never there. Aside from my prosthetic leg, the only evidence of the Games is the faintest of white lines on my thigh from where Cato's sword cut through it.

The team get to work, soaking and scrubbing my skin, washing my hair, shaping my nails, and attacking my eyebrows with wax and tweezers. As they flutter about me, they recall their favourite moments of the Games. There is a lot of gushing over the romance between Katniss and me – 'M _y heart melted when…'_ and _'Didn't you just die at that time when…?_ ' They also gossip about the other tributes, criticising their strategies and making fun at the mistakes they made that got themselves killed. I feel sick and more than a little angry listening to them prattle on. I try to tune them out but I just end up wondering to myself whether if I myself would be making the same kinds of remarks if I was born into the Capitol rather than the districts. It's a thought I'd rather not entertain.

I'm relieved when Portia finally returns to fit me my outfit. It's a simple costume, sleek black trousers and a soft yellow shirt that ripples with the slightest of movements, giving it the appearance of a flickering candle.

Portia helps me into a pair of sturdy black boots. "I thought something like these would help keep you steady," she says, doing up the laces. The shoes are ridged but fit snugly around both of my feet. She then helps me to stand and hands me a thin metal cane to complete the look. "What do you think?" she says, standing back to allow me to look into the mirror.

"Well, if I can look this good, I can't wait to see how Katniss looks," I say. "Will she be in a matching outfit?"

"You'll see," she says, with a hint of a smile.

It's early evening now. I'm afforded a quick meal of roast beef and vegetables before being swiftly escorted down to the bottom of the training centre and then to a dimly lit area beneath the stage. Portia sets me down on a metal platform before disappearing to change and take her position for the show. I've never paid much attention to the victor presentations before, but if I recall correctly, the prep team, escort, stylist, and mentor are introduced first, and then the victor rises onto the stage from below. I wait nervously in the dark, clammy room, listening to my heart pound amidst the excited buzz of the crowd.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

The familiar sound of the anthem plays, but this time when I hear it, my heart leaps with eager anticipation. I hear the crowd cheer as Caesar Flickerman emerges. He tells a few jokes to warm them up before introducing the prep teams. They must be giddy with excitement. I imagine them doing ridiculous curtsies, blowing kisses to the audience, and feigning humility with folded hands across their chests. Next, Effie is presented. I actually can't help but feel happy for her. She has waited so long to have a victor, and now she has two. For her, this is a once in a lifetime, unimaginable triumph. And, say what you like about her, Effie Trinket really did do everything in her power to help us. When Portia and Cinna are introduced, the crowd goes absolutely wild with applause. I'm thrilled that their brilliant work receives the recognition it deserves. The effort they put into creating such mesmerising, unforgettable costumes for Katniss and me could have even made the difference between life and death for the two of us. We will be indebted to them for the rest of our lives. Haymitch is last, and to my astonishment, receives a round of cheering, whistling, and stomping that goes on for at least five minutes. I guess everyone loves a transformation story – useless drunk turned successful mentor to not one, but two victors, and from District 12 no less.

And then it's our turn. The platform beneath my feet jolts into motion, sending a ripple of excitement surging through my body. For a moment, I'm blinded and deafened by the bright lights and roar of the crowd. Before I can register my surroundings, Katniss flings herself into my arms, causing me to stumble back and lose my balance. I catch myself before I fall, holding onto Katniss with one hand and using the cane to steady myself with the other. We cling tightly to one another for a long while the audience goes berserk. She's alive, she's safe, and she's in my arms and I'm never letting go. I pull back just enough so that I can kiss her. She presses into me with real passion. It's the first time we kiss when we are not sick, dying, or being hunted. It feels incredible. The sound of the crowd fades from my consciousness and all I can take in is the sensation of her lips and the feel of our bodies wrapped around each other. For a few moments, it's like the world doesn't exist and it's just me and Katniss, alone together.

When we finally break apart, we just stand there, gazing at one another as if our eyes were seeing for the first time. She looks incredible. Her flickering yellow dress is reflected on her perfect face, causing it to light up like the sun. The effect is intoxicating. So when Caesar taps me on the shoulder to tell me it's time to start the show, I push him away without even shifting my focus from Katniss. I kiss her again, ignoring the excited howls and whistles of the crowd.

Finally, Haymitch gets himself between us and shoves us toward the victor's chair, which this year, is actually a small red velvet couch, just large enough to accommodate two people. I position myself carefully on one side and Katniss sits close beside me. She then kicks off her black leather sandals, tucks her feet up, and leans her head against my shoulder. I wrap my arms around her and give the top of her head a gentle kiss.

Caesar makes a few more jokes and then announces that it's time to start the show. As the lights dim and the Capitol seal is broadcast on the screen, my stomach clenches into a tight knot and I feel sick. I had been so fixated on getting to see Katniss again that I forgot to prepare myself for what will be a gruelling three-hour review of the Games. Being forced to relive each horrifying moment, every brutal killing in close-up, gruesome detail feels like a special kind of torture that only a few would ever understand. Katniss encases one of her hands in mine and I give it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

But when the screen lights up and the highlights begin to play, I'm relieved to find that the editors have chosen to tell a different story this year. A love story. It's normal for replays to focus a lot on the victor, but Katniss and I certainly receive a disproportionate amount of airtime.

It begins with the pre-arena events, the reaping, the chariot ride through the Capitol, our training scores, and our interviews. The montage is all set to a series of upbeat songs that seems strange and awful given that almost everyone on screen just died horrible, grisly deaths.

Once the Games begin, they basically alternate between footage of the tributes dying and shots of Katniss or me. There's detailed coverage of the opening bloodbath, and each and every killing that took place afterwards. I look away when they show me with the girl by the fire.

I actually enjoy watching Katniss navigate the Games when she was acting solo. She's in her element, showcasing remarkable strength and an unshakable spirit of survival as she dodges fireballs, climbs trees, and blows up supplies. I can't help but admire her. She looks positively fierce compared to me.

That is, up until the part where Rue is killed. Then the audience gets to see another side of Katniss. The side I first fell in love with. After she kills Marvel, she kneels beside Rue, who is curled up on her side, the spear sticking straight out of her stomach. Katniss takes Rue's outstretched hand and lifts the head of the dying girl onto her lap. Rue asks Katniss to sing to her. And she does. Tears stream down Katniss's cheeks as she recites the words to an old lullaby. A stillness comes over the audience, as if every single person is holding their breath. The sweet, pure sound of her voice rings out into the night air. Then, when the song is over, the mockingjays in the arena pick up the tune, giving the distinct impression that the entire forest is mourning Rue's loss.

The tone of the show changes abruptly when the rule change is announced. The moment it happens, Katniss calls out my name and immediately comes searching for me. Our first kiss is played in full, which is totally weird to see on the big screen, and a lot of time is spent on the two of us in the cave as we nurse each other back to health.

They show what I think is far too much of Cato's death before moving on to the final scene with the berries. The audience hush one another, not wanting to miss a single moment. The show ends not with an announcement of our victory, but with Katniss screaming my name and pounding on the glass doors of the hovercraft while the medics try to revive me.

The anthem sounds once again and we rise for President Snow as he takes the stage. He is followed by a little girl carrying a single golden crown on a red velvet cushion. You can hear the murmurs of confusion among the audience as they try to figure out whose head he will place it on. But when he picks it up, he gives it a twist and it separates into two perfect halves. I receive mine first and watch as President Snow adorns Katniss's head with her crown. It's not until this moment that I realise how different she looks. Cinna and his team have worked hard to make her look younger and more feminine. Her hair has been left out, held back by a single headband, and the usual angles of her face seem to have been rounded out somehow. She looks not like a Hunger Games victor, but an innocent, unassuming girl. I'm guessing the TV producers have something to do with it, since it doesn't seem like something Cinna and Portia would have come up with. All part of the love story, I guess. There's a lot of cheering and bowing, and then Caesar wraps up the show, reminding the audience to tune in again tomorrow for the final interviews.

Katniss and I are whisked off to the President's Mansion for the Victory Banquet, where, instead of actually eating, we are tossed to and fro – meeting Capitol officials and having our photos taken with our sponsors. Everyone gushes and talks excitedly about us as if we went there. I work hard to smile, laugh, and chatter away politely to each and every person. It's not easy; especially when people want us to relive parts of the Games with them. It either feels too awful or too private to share with these removed strangers. The only thing that stops me from losing it completely is Katniss, who keeps her hand tightly interlocked with mine throughout the entire evening.

It's early morning by the time it's all over and I'm dying to finally have some time alone with Katniss before catching up on sleep. But when we arrive back on the twelfth floor, Haymitch sends me off with Portia to have my shoes fitted for the final interview. It seems a little arbitrary, like it was just an excuse to get rid of me for a while. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but I can't shake the feeling that Haymitch is up to something.

I'm afforded just a few hours of sleep before Effie comes to collect me for another "big, big, big day!" Everything happens in a rush. My prep team hover nearby while I shovel down a bowl of rice and stew, then they whisk me away to the prep room where I'm subject to yet another a round of grooming and beautifying. After my hair and makeup are complete, Portia comes to fit me in a suit with black trousers and a crisp white shirt. She adjusts a burgundy tie around my neck and helps me into a tailored suit jacket of the same colour.

"This is your last outfit Peeta," Portia says, revealing it to me in the mirror. "Then this will all be over and you get to start your new life back home."

My new life. What will that be like, I wonder? Everything will be totally different. Katniss and I will each have our house in the Victor's Village. No doubt Katniss's family will move in with her. It will be a welcome escape from their half fallen down shack in the Seam. The victor mansions are nicer than just about every other house in the District and are definitely larger and better appointed than ours. Still, my parents will want to stay at the bakery and I doubt my brothers will want to live with me. With the income I receive as a victor, my parents could actually sell the bakery and do whatever they wanted. But I know they won't. They wouldn't know what to do with themselves if they weren't slaving away at the ovens. It's just a part of their identity.

But it doesn't matter what my family does because I will have Katniss. Things will change when we get home, away from the spotlight. The flashy romance of the Capitol will be gone and we can just get on with being ourselves like we were back in the cave. And even though the traumas of the last few weeks will never leave us, we'll at least have each other to get us through.

The interview is set to take place in a small sitting room, decorated with vases of red and pink flowers positioned around the red velvet couch. The live audience has been replaced by a handful of cameras and a small crew. Katniss is already there when I arrive, looking gorgeous in a flowing white dress and pink shoes. Haymitch is there too, lurking amongst the cameramen and watching Caesar chat casually with Katniss.

In the few moments before the show starts, I manage to pull Katniss off to the side. "I hardly get to see you. Haymitch seems bent on keeping us apart."

"Yes, he's got very responsible lately," she says. Her face is glowing radiantly under the studio lighting.

"Well, it's just this and then we go home. Then he can't watch us all the time," I say.

Caesar calls us over and we sit side by side on the little red couch.

"Oh, go ahead and curl up next to him if you want," Caesar tells her. "It looked very sweet." She does and I pull her in close to me.

There's a countdown from ten, and then the interview begins. Caesar is in fine form, teasing us and joking around as we chat about the lighter side of things. Katniss is clearly uncomfortable with the attention and frequently defers the conversation back to me.

"Peeta, we all had a good laugh after you teased Katniss for being a bad liar, and then she immediately fooled you into drinking the sleep syrup. How did you feel when you woke up and realised what had happened?" Caesar asks.

"Honestly, I wanted to be angry at her but there was no opportunity," I say. "At first I was just concerned about Katniss because she was unconscious with that big gash on her head, and then I was so happy to have her with me again when she finally woke up. Then it was just hard not to admire her for taking on the Careers to save my life. What else could I do but feel grateful and love her even more?"

"Yes, I think the audience shared the same sentiment," Caesar replies. "Well, Peeta, we know, from our days in the cave, that it was love at first sight for you from what, age five?" Caesar asks.

"From the moment I laid eyes on her," I say.

"But Katniss, what a ride for you. I think the real excitement for the audience was watching you fall for him. When did you realise you were in love with him?" Caesar asks.

"Oh, that's a hard one…" Katniss laughs nervously.

"Well, I know when it hit me. The night when you shouted his name from that tree," Caesar says.

"Yes, I guess that was it. I mean, until that point, I just tried not to think about what my feelings might be, honestly, because it was all so confusing and it only made things worse if I actually cared about him. But then, in the tree, everything changed," she says.

"Why do you think that was?" Caesar presses.

"Maybe… Because for the first time… There was a chance I could keep him," Katniss says hesitantly, as if she's not sure it's the right thing to say.

I press my forehead into Katniss's temple. "So now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?"

She twists her body around, folds her hands around my waist and looks into my eyes. "Put you somewhere you can't get hurt."

I lean down to kiss her, savouring the sweet moment. In all my fantasising about being with Katniss, I could never have imagined that it would feel this good to have her care about me the way she does now.

For Caesar, this is a natural place to segue into all the ways Katniss and I were hurt in the arena – burns, to stings, to tribute inflicted wounds. There is a lot of light banter and joking right up until Caesar asks me how my new leg is working out.

"New leg?" Katniss asks, pulling at the bottom of my trousers.

"No one told you?" asks Caesar gently. Katniss shakes her head.

"I haven't had the chance," I say.

Katniss responds just as I predicted she would. "It's my fault. Because I used that tourniquet."

"Yes, it's your fault I'm alive," I say.

"He's right," Caesar chimes in. "He'd have bled to death for sure without it." She must know we're right, but even so, Katniss is dreadfully upset and buries her head in my chest. It takes Caesar and me a few minutes to coax her back out, reassuring her that she did the right thing. Caesar and I chat a little more about my leg and I'm careful to emphasise how good it is and how I'm looking forward to being able to run again. Once Caesar has given Katniss a break, he turns his attention back to her.

"Katniss, I know you've had a shock, but I've got to ask. The moment when you pulled out those berries. What was going on in your mind… Hm?"

Katniss takes a long pause. "I don't know, I just… Couldn't bear the thought of… Being without him," she says softly.

"Peeta? Anything to add?" Caesar questions.

"No. I think that goes for both of us," I say.

It's a perfect moment to finish the interview. Caesar wraps up and signs off, and the whole room is alive with laughter, tears, and hugging. It's a magnificent feat for them – a Hunger Games show that is not just a story of survival and triumph, but love. Nothing like this has ever been done before and may never be achieved again.

With the last public appearance over, we are swiftly ushered into a car with blackened windows and driven the short distance to where the train is waiting for us. We are only given a few moments to say goodbye to Portia and Cinna, which is not nearly long enough. We will get to see them in a few months though, when we are paraded through the districts on our Victory Tour. It's the Capitol's way of keeping the Hunger Games at the forefront of people's minds. We'll have to make a bunch of speeches while the district people pretend they love us instead of wishing us dead for having killed their children.

Effie leads us onto the train and Haymitch follows behind, batting the last of the cameras away. I let out a big sigh of relief as the doors of the carriage close behind us and the train pulls swiftly into motion. It is done. Now we can start to get on with some sort of normal life, whatever that means.

But as we slowly make our way through a decadent five-course evening meal, I can sense that Katniss is not quite herself. And when we settle in front of the television to watch a replay of the interview, her eyes appear glazed and she emits no response to any of it. Eventually, she excuses herself and escapes to her room, leaving me to watch the rest of the show with Haymitch and Effie.

When Katniss returns about an hour later, I'm reassured to see that she has transformed back into her typical, pre-Games self. She wears no makeup, her hair is back in her regular braid, and she is dressed in a simple shirt and trousers. I haven't seen her like this since before the Games began. This is Katniss at her most beautiful, without anyone interfering to try to make her into something she's not.

Katniss strolls over and sits beside me. But when I put my arm around her shoulders, it's immediately apparent that something is still not right. Even though she is right here, she somehow feels as far away as she did when I lay dying among the mud in the arena. I glance at her, but she refuses to meet my gaze. I guess it's not fair for me to expect her much of her right now. We've been through so much, seen so much. Perhaps now that we are safe and on our way home, the horrors of the past few weeks are finally starting to sink in.

When the train makes a brief stop for fuel, I suggest we go outside for some air. Katniss takes my outstretched hand and together we meander slowly along the track. Even though it's the first time we've been alone without the prying eyes of the Capitol, we don't speak. Katniss seems to have retreated somewhere inside herself, and I can't think of anything useful to say to bring her back out.

With the hope of lifting her spirits a little, I pause to collect a bunch of delicate pink and white flowers that are growing beside the rails. She accepts them, but her face remains downcast.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing," she says unconvincingly. I decide to let it go. If she doesn't want to talk about it, I don't want to make her. I probably couldn't if I tried to anyway.

We continue walking silently along the track, hand in hand, until Haymitch comes and breaks the silence. "Great job you two. Just keep it up in the district until the cameras are gone. We should be okay." Then, without waiting for a response, he turns and walks back to the train.

I'm confused. Clearly, there's been something going on between Katniss and Haymitch that I've been left out of.

"What's he mean?" I ask Katniss.

"It's the Capitol. They didn't like our stunt with the berries," she says.

"What? What are you talking about?" I say. I hadn't been thinking of it as any sort of stunt.

"It seemed too rebellious. So Haymitch has been coaching me through the last few days. So I didn't make it worse," she says.

I'm growing more hurt and confused, suddenly aware that I've been excluded from something really important. "Coaching you? But not me," I say.

"He knew you were smart enough to get it right," she says.

"I didn't know there was anything to get right," I say. Slowly things start clicking into place. Haymitch did not need to coach me because I was already in love with her. He must have been instructing her on how to act as though she loves me too. My stomach twists and I begin to feel sick. I can feel the blood drain from my face. Has it all been a lie? "So, what you're saying is, these last few days and then I guess… back in the arena… that was just some strategy you two worked out."

"No. I mean, I couldn't even talk to him in the arena, could I?" she stammers, carefully avoiding my question.

"But you knew what he wanted you to do, didn't you?" I press, but she just bites her lip. "Katniss?" I let her hand drop as the truth starts to grip me. "It was all for the Games," I say simply.

"Not all of it," she defends.

"Then how much?" My hurt starts to flare into anger. "No, forget that. I guess the real question is what's going to be left when we get home?"

"I don't know. The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get," she says. But that's still not an answer. I need to know if any of it was real, if it meant anything to her, if there's any chance of there being something in future. But she says nothing and I can't stand the silence any longer.

"Well, let me know when you work it out," I say, trying desperately to hold back the tears as I turn to make my way back onto the train. My head is spinning out of control. I walk down the passageway, trying to locate my room. When I find it, I stumble inside, shut the door behind me, and collapse onto the floor. At first, I just lay there, thinking nothing and letting the rumble of the train engine absorb me. But then it hits me all once with such a force that I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach. I can't breathe. I lay curled up on the floor holding myself, trying to make sense of it. For hours, I let the tears flow as my mind traces over all the moments Katniss and I had shared. Moments that I now know are a lie. It was all a lie! The pain is unbearable. I try to pull myself together but the despair keeps pulling me back under. I only get a brief respite when I go through waves where I just feel angry, torn apart by her betrayal, and furious with myself for believing it. Then the anger gives way to grief again and I'm wishing I could somehow stay mad.

I don't bother dragging myself to bed, but at some point, I must go to sleep because I wake up screaming Katniss's name. By the time morning comes, the tears have all dried up, and my anguish is replaced by a hollow nothingness that completely consumes me.

I don't emerge from my room until the train slows at the outskirts of District 12 station. Katniss stands alone by the window. I want to say something, but all I can muster is a slight nod as I come to stand by her side. We look out and see our rickety old platform thick with cameras. The only thing I can do now is try to follow Haymitch's instructions to "keep it up" while our every move is still being watched. After all, if he's right, then our lives are very much in danger. And even though I am unable to feel much at all, my instinct to protect Katniss remains as strong as ever. I extend my hand out to her, but she looks at me, uncertain.

"One more time, for the audience?" I say. No matter what, I'm still the boy who is willing to do anything for the girl that he loves. She takes my hand and I hold onto it tightly, ready for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.

12


End file.
